Sgt. Reckless: America's War Horse

by Robin Hutton

  At the end of World War II, Kim’s greatest wish came true. During the war, Kim and Flame had been assigned to work at a Japanese prisoner of war camp, and Kim had saved the lives of many American POWs by sneaking food to them. When Japan surrendered and the camp was liberated, Kim’s reward for his acts of bravery and kindness was Flame’s ownership papers.

  Kim returned to his family in Seoul. He lived with his older sister Chung Soon, their mother, his young niece Nam Soon, and his young nephew Yon. Their home, a shabby wattle-and-mud hut in the shape of an L, mirrored a hundred others lining the crooked streets along the Han River. The walls were baked mud, and the roof, fashioned of rice straw, was darkened by mildew. One part of the house was used to store firewood and hang meat or fish—whenever the family could afford such luxuries. The other part, the living quarters, was barely big enough for a small stove and sleeping mats for the five of them. In the winter, window coverings of rice straw were the only defense against the bitter cold.

  Chung Soon toiled in the rice fields—back-breaking work lasting from daylight to dark that didn’t produce enough money to feed one person, let alone five. As it was, most of the family’s meals consisted of a small bowl of rice with many cups of hot water. They felt lucky to have even that.

  Kim bred Flame to another racehorse, a stallion from Pusan: the result was Reckless, born at Seoul’s Sinseol-dong racetrack in June 1948. The sentimental Kim named her Ah-Chim-Hai—Flame-of-Morning—to honor her famous dam. It was a day of celebration, but followed swiftly by tragedy. Within a week, her mother was dead, dying in the young jockey’s arms, stricken by a fever. The devastated Kim blamed himself, thinking his desire for another racehorse had killed his championship mare and beloved friend. He no longer could bear to look at young Flame.

  Kim’s friends at the track tried to help. One, fellow jockey Choi Chang Ju, offered to take the newborn filly so it could be raised by one of his own mares—one who had dropped a foal three days earlier. She was big, strong, and could feed two as easily as one. Kim took Flame to her new foster mother at Sinseol-dong and left quickly; the racetrack was now a place of painful memories.

  Months later, when the winter racing season began in November 1948, the family’s gnawing poverty drew the reluctant Kim back to the sport. That first day back at Sinseol-dong, Kim won three races. Despite his understandable exhilaration, Kim couldn’t bring himself to visit young Flame in her stable. Another year passed before their lives intersected.

  That impromptu, unplanned reunion came in November 1949. Entering the racetrack, Kim saw a playful Flame, goofing around with the other young horses. The twenty-two-year-old jockey watched with barely suppressed glee as Flame broke from the group and spun in a fluid, free-spirited prance. In Kim’s eyes, it was as if Flame’s namesake, her mother, had returned. All the painful feelings Kim held against the little horse evaporated.

  Kim’s joy at seeing the prancing young Flame was suddenly replaced by terror when three massive, snarling dogs streaked across the field and attacked her. Shrieking in horror, Kim leapt over the railing. His screams distracted the dogs momentarily, and Flame broke free. She sprinted toward Kim, the dogs baying after her. Kim threw himself between Flame and the dogs, kicking one of them away, which had them cowering and then finally backing off.

  The trembling Flame nuzzled Kim while he stroked the frightened animal, calming her down. He put her in her mother’s old stall, and the young Flame became the center of Kim’s life.

  Flame was now almost two years old. Kim held high aspirations for her as a racehorse and set about training her. He quickly realized Flame had more native intelligence than most horses, a curiosity making her seem almost human. Flame was so eager to learn that training seemed effortless. She only needed to be shown something once, twice at the most, and she had it down. Kim had to admit the horse had qualities and abilities even her famous mother never demonstrated.

  It’s difficult to determine Flame’s precise pedigree. She was “bred to be a racehorse,” but that’s a very general description and sheds no light on her breed. Even Andy Geer skirted the subject. Mention “Thoroughbred” and most people think of racehorses. But Thoroughbreds generally average sixteen hands high, with one hand measuring four inches. That makes most Thoroughbreds sixty-four inches at their withers—where the neck meets the shoulder. Flame stood a good dozen inches shorter at thirteen hands, making her more of a pony size-wise. She was also sometimes referred to as a “Mongolian” mare, but only on account of her size, for she bore little other resemblance to the breed, which is much stockier, with a heavy head, short neck, wide body, and thicker mane, tail, and leg hair. This may also be more of a regional reference than one of actual bloodline, as the Mongols introduced horses to the region at the time of Genghis Khan in the thirteenth century.

  Most likely Flame was a taller than average (by two hands) Cheju (Jeju) pony (which gets its name from its native Cheju Island off the southern tip of South Korea) or possibly a Hanna horse—a crossbred Cheju pony and Thoroughbred. Both the Cheju pony and the Hanna horse were used for racing. Aside from her height, Flame’s other features were consistent with the Cheju. Cheju ponies often have long legs with horse-like proportions, rather than the stubbier legs ponies are known for. They are resistant to disease and ticks and are extremely strong, capable of carrying loads up to 230 pounds, which, for Flame, would prove very useful in her military career.3

  Climbing astride Flame for the first time was magical for Kim. He couldn’t wait for their first race. Weeks of rigorous training boosted the horse’s speed, agility, and concentration. In practice races, she routinely swept past other horses to victory, prancing in pride afterward in a sort of victory dance.

  The summer racing season approached in late June 1950. Kim worked feverishly, preparing the young filly for her professional debut. He was confident of her talent and spirit, but events would take Flame in a different direction.

  War

  At 4:00 a.m. on Sunday, June 25, 1950, North Korea invaded South Korea. The attack came thirty miles north of Seoul, and many South Koreans who heard about it initially dismissed it as just another border skirmish with the antagonistic Communist regime. Race day was in full swing at Sinseol-dong, and thousands had poured through the turnstiles by 11:00 a.m., post time for the first race.

  The seventh race was set aside for one of the biggest track events of the year—to honor Shin Ik Hee, a resistance fighter against Japanese colonial rule and considered a “founding father” of the Republic of Korea. During the fourth race, a plane circled overhead, dropping hundreds of leaflets. They cascaded from the sky, a white storm of propaganda raining down on the spectators. The flyers announced that an invasion—or “liberation” as the pamphlets declared—had just begun. Military jeeps sped to the track, their loudspeakers blaring a demand for all soldiers on leave to return immediately to their divisions.

  Yet racing continued without incident through the day, with the Shin Ik Hee race running as scheduled. By day’s end, however, it was clear that South Korea’s very existence was at threat. All racing was suspended, as the country fought for its life, and thousands of South Korean civilians fled from the capital city of Seoul away from the sound of thundering guns. Flame’s racing career was not to be.

  Kim gathered his own family, preparing to make a two-hundred-mile journey south to the comparative safety of Pusan. Kim improvised a harness and hitched Flame to an abandoned cart. He hurriedly loaded sleeping mats and food and seated his mother and the children—his niece Nam Soon and nephew Yon—atop the rickety cart, which smelled of excrement and refuse. Flame took all this in stride as Kim took the lead rope and walked ahead alongside his sister Chung Soon.

  Heading out of town, Kim heard the cries of an old blind woman who had given him grief since he was a boy. Kim stopped, gathered up the old woman, and placed her alongside his mother. At midnight, they arrived at a ferry crossing point on the Han River. They found thousands of frantic refugees waiting
ahead of them.

  Kim turned the cart and headed downstream to try to find a place where they could swim across. It took hours, but when they found it, Kim unhitched Flame from the cart and led her to the river’s edge. She intuited what he wanted her to do. She gave a loud snort and then waded slowly into the cold, dark water, Kim clutching her mane and Chung Soon holding fast to her tail. Once they safely reached the other side, Kim selected a spot to make camp and then swam back with Flame to help the others cross. One by one, Flame carried Yon, Nam Soon, and Kim’s mother on separate, increasingly wearying crossings. The poor horse was exhausted, her head hanging and flanks heaving. Kim and Flame swam back one last time—for the old woman. Flame rested at the water’s edge as Kim went to find her.

  She was gone. Kim called out frantically and searched up and down the riverbank. No trace of her. Finally, Kim had no choice but to bundle the rice, sleeping mats, and clothing for the final crossing with Flame, which left the horse trembling, struggling for breath, and near collapse.

  In a cruel twist of fate, Kim’s mother came down with a chill and died a few days later on the way to Pusan. Her dutiful son laid her to rest on a hillside overlooking the Naktong River.

  A New Life in Pusan

  It took two weeks to reach Pusan. There, Kim and his family stayed at the home of a friend whose horse had sired young Flame. Kim and Flame went to work unloading American ships at the docks. They hauled military supplies to huge dumps, even as the enemy, having overrun most of South Korea, besieged the southern port city. The siege of the Pusan Perimeter was finally broken in September 1950, but it was two years before Kim and his family felt it was safe enough to return home to Seoul.

  Sad Homecoming

  In the spring of 1952, Kim hitched Flame to a cart and the family trudged north, bound for Seoul. The Seoul that Kim’s family found on their return was a ghost of its former vibrant self; in fact, much of the city lay in ruins. Their own modest home was damaged but still standing.

  Kim went looking for work at the racetrack, only to discover that the grounds had been converted to a landing field for the American Army. Kim was, however, still able to board Flame there, alongside other racehorses converted to wartime beasts of burden.

  Kim and Flame began hauling rice from the fields to a government warehouse. Kim developed a “walking stick” trick that allowed him to steal extra rice for the family. The stick actually was a bamboo shaft with a cap. When no one was watching, Kim would plunge the shaft into a bag of rice, fill it, then cap the shaft. But Flame also had to eat. Because her grain was in short supply, the children pitched in, spending days pulling grass for her in the hills.

  One day, Kim’s old jockey friend Choi Chang Ju returned to the track. He had been in the Korean Army, in a battalion attached to the American Army 2nd Division. He had, however, lost an arm in the fighting and his military career was apparently over. Choi had a certificate from an American doctor authorizing him to receive a prosthetic arm from any American military hospital once his stump healed. Choi considered himself lucky—not only was he eligible for a new arm, but, as a disabled vet, he was entitled to government rice rations. He would never go hungry. He agreed to help Kim as much as he could because Kim’s family was struggling to get by.

  Chung Soon worked in the rice paddies, which offered steady but dangerous work, because the paddies were littered with landmines. One day, a worker next to her in the fields stepped on one. He was killed instantly, along with three others, and the blast mangled Chung Soon’s left leg.

  Yon and Nam Soon were at home when Chung was carried into the house, hysterical from pain and fear. A doctor arrived soon there-after. Her wounds were so severe that he decided he had to amputate her leg. Yon ran screaming from the house, looking for Kim.

  Kim, Choi, and Flame were returning from work when the sobbing Yon came racing up the middle of the street. Kim picked up the frantic little boy, placed him in the cart, and rushed home to see what was happening. Kim discovered his sister on a sleeping pad on the floor, writhing in pain, one leg missing. The doctor told Kim he did not have the drugs he needed to alleviate Chung Soon’s pain and protect her from infection. Choi stepped up, telling the doctor to write down what was needed—that he would find a way to get it.

  Kim stroked Chung’s damp forehead until she fell asleep, then slipped outside to an astonishing sight: Choi was beating his stump with a stick. Kim pleaded with his friend to stop, but Choi explained that now he could go to the hospital for treatment—and get the drugs for Chung. Kim was beyond grateful for Choi’s selflessness.

  The next day at the hospital, Kim was amazed to see Korean soldiers walking on new artificial legs. He vowed that somehow he would get one for his sister. Choi, in the meantime, slipped Kim the medications that Chung Soon needed.

  A few days later, Choi left the hospital and visited Kim and Chung Soon. With him was the same American doctor who had removed Choi’s arm a year earlier, after the Battle of Wonju. The doctor brought medicine and crutches for Chung Soon, as well as food for the entire family.

  When the doctor left, an emotional Kim turned to Choi. He was adamant: Chung Soon needed an artificial leg. Somehow, some way, he would get his sister the prosthetic. Choi, however, knew how expensive they were for civilians.

  •••

  Weeks passed. On a cool day in October 1952, Kim and Choi finished work early and headed to the track to gallop Flame. This was the filly’s favorite part of the day—the chance to sprint free, joyfully, and without care. American troops gathered to watch. When Flame noticed them, she began prancing, spinning, showing off for the crowd. How could Kim not love that spirit? He’d never lost the dream of racing her on that same track before thousands of adoring fans. Later, when they were about to leave the stables, four American soldiers bounced up in a jeep with a trailer attached. Flame’s life was about to change.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE “RECKLESS” RIFLE PLATOON

  With the velocity of the round going out the barrel and the back blast of the round . . . nobody could stand behind it. It would cook a person.

  —Private John Newsom, 5th Marine Division, Recoilless Rifle Platoon

  It’s often said all’s fair in love and war. Nevertheless, there were “rules” that ostensibly governed the Korean War. When the village of Panmunjom was chosen as the site for the United Nations truce talks, the peace negotiators drew a circle around a map of the “truce village.” This was a no-fire zone. The no-fire zone was extended to cover a road (known as Freedom Road) for UN personnel to get to and from the peace talks. As Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Geer explained, “A larger circle with a two-mile radius was established and aircraft were not allowed to fly over this territory. Other lines were drawn, among them the Corps’ No Fire Line, a No Voice Broadcast Line, a No Aircraft West of This Line and a No Leaflet Dropping Line. These lines of prohibition were drawn by the United Nations command as insurance no overt act would be committed to give the enemy cause for anger.”1

  Operation Dig

  Command Outpost No. 2 (COP2), manned by nearly three hundred Marines, was situated six-tenths of a mile east of the Panmunjom Circle. The Communists wanted it because if they could take it, they could threaten the entire Main Line of Resistance (MLR) of the United Nations forces.

  The Marines attached nicknames to the various hills and outposts they held. Often the names were not-so-sly references to glamorous movie stars; other times, the monikers reflected how areas appeared on the map. For instance, this particular area was home to Hedy, Ingrid, and Ginger. Kate was nearby, but she was hardly a Hepburn hill, having been named for a Marine’s girlfriend. Then there was Marilyn. Because of her height, Marilyn could support, if needed, both Outpost Kate to the east and Command Outpost 2 to the west.

  Then there was Toothache and Molar, names the Marines used interchangeably for a hill situated between Command Outpost 2 and the restricted area around Panmunjom. On the map, Molar really did resemble an extracted toot
h. But Toothache aptly described problems associated with its location—smack between Command Outpost 2 and the restricted area of Panmunjom.

  The Chinese called their plan to isolate Command Outpost 2 “Operation Dig.” In this so-called “creeping offensive,” they would literally excavate around the outpost, thus cutting the road stretching from it to the restricted corridor. If the Marines were unable to receive supplies of food, water, and ammunition, the outpost surely would fall to the Chinese.

  A trench was begun just south of the tiny village of Kamon-dong, from which the Chinese often fired on Command Outpost 2. Because of Kamon-dong’s close proximity to the restricted zone circling Panmunjom, the Chinese knew the Marines wouldn’t risk returning fire with ordinary artillery and mortars, for fear of accidentally dropping a round into the restricted area.

  With the Chinese cleverly using the Panmunjom Circle as a shield, the 5th Marines Recoilless Rifle Platoon was called upon to use their highly specialized rifle—if the right site could be found.

  Lieutenant William E. Riley Jr. wrote to his sweetheart Patty O’Leary about the role of the Anti-Tank Company and Recoilless Rifle Platoon. “We have one platoon of five tanks and one platoon of six 75s. Primarily we are an Anti-Tank company but the Koreans and Chinese haven’t used any tanks in a few years and probably never will, so our primary job is assisting the infantry platoons in knocking out enemy bunkers, weapons and troops. . . . It’s not a big, behind-the-lines weapon like it sounds. The 75 recoilless rifle is a small, potent weapon designed for front line use to assist the rifle platoons. We go on patrols and raids once in awhile to give added power to a unit.”2

  PFC Roman Prauty, a gunner with 31st RCT (crouching foreground), with the assistance of his gun crew, fires a 75 mm recoilless rifle, near Oetlook-tong, Korea, June 9, 1951. Corbis

  Because it had no wheels and sat on a tripod, the recoilless was awkward and challenging to carry; moving it in the field usually required three and at times four men, though sometimes two could manage. It could throw a 75 mm shell several thousand yards with extreme precision.