50th Anniversary Issue — October 1, 1995

By Dick Kemp

During the Korean War, it seemed to me that the two most valuable things needed by anyone covering the conflict were transportation and communications. It helped, too, if you had experience in covering the military engaging a tough and mean enemy.

Like the time I was able to get agreement to cover a Mosquito outfit doing aerial reconnaissance for the United Nations forces.

My pilot was an Air Force captain who knew his business. We were to make four sorties during a two-day period with me sitting behind him.

Well, I was of no use to him as an observer, but I quickly grew to appreciate his courage. During one flight, he intervened after a call for aid from an infantry unit "in deep stuff."

My pilot got two Air Force fighter-bombers on hand and then led them in, placing smoke rockets on the enemy positions. The infantry on the ground got the help they needed. I got great copy for a combat story.

I finished my story back in Pusan at the Pacific Stars and Stripes bureau and walked it to a Signal center just down the road.

My story never got out of Korea. I was called to an interview with a CIC agent. In my copy, I had used the radio code names of every ground and air contact we had. And I insisted that the copy go straight to Tokyo instead of through the field censorship unit. Army intelligence wanted to know why I had breached security on radio codes -- a certain aid to the foe. I just didn't know: I didn't know the rules in communicating copy to my home office, and I didn't know that using the codes in the manner I had in an open story was a breach of security.

It didn't end my reporting career, but it killed a worthwhile story and taught me some valuable lessons.

Field press censorship was attached to the Eighth Army correspondents' billets, where newsmen were briefed twice a day and where they slept, sometimes showered and, if lucky, managed to get a hot meal.

Most of the censors were newsmen recalled to active duty from Stateside newspapers. They knew the score. They also knew that it was easy to give information to the enemy through early release of news stories dealing with an unresolved tactical situation.

Many were the arguments between writers and photographers and the censors. Sometimes, the censors even lost. However, delays of up to four and five days did happen, although 36 to 48 hours was more the norm.

I moved about Korea any way I could, hitching rides on trucks, Jeeps, planes and even rail cars. Riding the trains was my favorite. Usually, I could find a freight car that was empty or occupied by a few weary Koreans.

I recall one trip when I crawled into an empty freight car and fell asleep as soon as it began to roll. When I awoke, the car had taken on about two dozen other passengers, one of whom had my carbine in his hand and was shouting in Korean.

I entertained a few thoughts about taking back my weapon, but as I cleared my head of sleep I became aware of the singularity of my position. But then the Koreans realized I had awakened, and the next thing I knew my young friend handed back my carbine, bowed and took a seat on the other side of the car.

I spent about three months covering the men and exploits of the 1st Marine Division, which was in the Chunchon area in central Korea at that time.

I got used to the barking sounds the Marines made as I hiked or sometimes rode from point to point, but I doubt if I ever got used to the form of hazing that began when one of them said, seriously, "Well, Kemp, the Army has done it again. They bugged out."

My reaction brought broad smiles and laughter to the faces of the Marine writers, who for the most part were World War II veterans recalled for Korean duty.

It really hit home late one day as I came in from a trip to the Marine front and was met outside the PIO tent by civilians Fred Sparks and Dave McConnell. Sparks was writing for several papers at the time, and McConnell was there for the New York Herald-Tribune. "Hey, Dick," Sparks said. "The Army bugged out again today."

I grabbed my helmet, threw it on the ground and blessed the Army, using all of those salty Marine descriptive adjectives I had acquired.

My antagonists took it all in with dead-pan expressions until they could stand it no more. Then they roared.

We had to take turns using the telephone that was in the correspondents' tent. It went through a maze of land lines that were spliced to produce total frustration.

I had a low priority usually and got to the phone after everything else had been relayed. As they, the invisible switchboard operators, tried to reach the correspondents' billets where a Stripes man could take my story, I sat for what seemed like hours repeating "working. . . working . . . working," just to let someone know that the line was being used.

Sometimes managing editor Capt. Billy G. Thompson, after getting what had passed the telephone network and the censors, would even use some of my copy.

What a triumph.

We competed for space in our own newspaper, Pacific Stars and Stripes, against some of the best in the business covering the Korean War. There were at least eight Stripes writers in Korea during the time I was there. Among us, we captured some space on a daily basis, and we earned our C-rations as we learned one of the toughest tasks in news coverage -- how to write a war.

At that time, there were about 72 military people assigned to Pacific Stars and Stripes. Most were enlisted, and they filled all types of jobs in newspaper production.

Lt. Gen. Matthew B. Ridgway said during an exclusive interview I had with him at Eighth Army headquarters in Taegu that the U.N. forces in early 1951 were meshing as a major fighting force because of "mutual respect.''

And it was mutual respect that created the bond between the combat soldier and the Stripes staffer covering his war.

Stripes printed 100,000 newspapers daily for the forces in Korea. Sometimes our readers received them three to five days after publication, but Stripes was read word for word and passed on to buddies.

What really was wonderful, however, was the reception they gave you whenever you turned up on the edge of their foxhole. You were their tie to home, one of their own with a message in print that perhaps looked and smelled and tasted like home.

The writer -- and Stripes --helped them forget what had transpired during the past day or two and gave them hope that just maybe they'd make it home.