Respect
Syngman Rhee will order the ROK forces to cross the 38th Parallel. Without a doubt. With absolute certainty. With or without approval from UNC headquarters. That was his creed. The entire Korean Peninsula belongs to the Republic of Korea. The 38th Parallel is nothing more than an arbitrary line. Unification won't come if not right now. It was the desperation of an old man. A 75-year-old politician had no "next chance."
No matter how much I was the UNC supreme commander, I had no authority to order the president of Korea to abandon his sovereignty claims over his own territory. If the ROK forces crossed first, the US forces would have to follow. An allied army couldn't just stand by while they advanced. Rhee clearly understood that dynamic.
I folded the paper. Unfolded it again. The period at the end of item 7 stabbed into my eyes. Seoul hadn't fallen yet. The Marines had crossed the Han River and entered the city, but full recapture would take a few more days. There was time. As time passed, Rhee's pressure would intensify, and Washington's victory mood would swell.
It's not me deciding. Truman decides, Rhee pushes, and I'm the one executing in between.
I set down the pipe. The lingering tobacco taste in my mouth was thick and bitter. So what could I do? If I couldn't stop the crossing altogether, I had to control how they crossed. How far they went. What formation they used. How to respond if the Chinese People's Volunteer Army showed up. What the original MacArthur had botched was the crossing itself—and the reckless rampage after.
Ridgway needs to get here. Fast.
Outside the office, typewriter keys clacked. The communications room tapping out cables. Even now, messages flew across the world. From Tokyo to Washington, Washington to Pusan, Pusan to Incheon. And at that very moment, between Pusan and Washington, a single phone call was taking place. I didn't know about it then. I wouldn't learn the contents for days.
Pusan, temporary presidential residence. September 26, 8 p.m.
Syngman Rhee sat by the phone, waiting for the operator to connect to Washington. What they called a residence was just a hastily renovated Japanese wooden house. A Taegukgi hung on the wall, and the desk was buried under stacks of papers and newspapers. Through the window, the faint lights of Pusan Harbor flickered.
Francesca brought tea. Rhee nodded and took the cup but didn't drink. He drummed his fingers on the rim, lost in thought.
The North Korean forces on the Nakdong River had been annihilated. Seoul's recapture was imminent. MacArthur had promised the ROK forces would enter first. Good news. It had to be.
But Rhee's mind wasn't on Seoul. It was on Pyongyang. That city beyond the 38th Parallel. The seat where Kim Il-sung sat. He had to crush it to end the war. Not just end it—achieve unification. He'd waited 75 years. 35 under Japanese rule, 5 years of post-liberation chaos, and now this war. Miss this moment, and it would never come again.
MacArthur had demanded command authority north of the 38th Parallel—in exchange for yielding Seoul's honor to the ROK. Rhee had replied then, "We can discuss it." Diplomatic language.
MacArthur's changed.
MacArthur after Incheon was different. Yielding glory in Seoul to the ROK forces, even calculating politics. Not like the old MacArthur—arrogant, dictatorial, but easier to handle precisely because of it.
Will this new MacArthur stop at the 38th?
That possibility gnawed at Rhee. The old one would have crossed without question. He'd have boasted of pushing to the Yalu. But now? This MacArthur who uttered "cautiously"?
Rhee set down the cup. If not MacArthur, then Truman.
Static crackled from the receiver. The operator's voice emerged. "Your Excellency, Washington is connected. President Truman's secretariat."
The line was noisy, sound quality abysmal, but words got through. After a brief wait, a voice with a Missouri drawl came over.
"President Rhee? Harry Truman here."
Truman's voice was plain. Unadorned, direct, sometimes rough. Rhee didn't like it. It lacked dignity for a US president. But results mattered now.
"President Truman, thank you for taking my call."
Rhee's English was fluent. Princeton PhD precise in pronunciation, rich in vocabulary. Just a Korean rhythm lingered in the accent.
"Congratulations on the great victory at Incheon. General MacArthur's operation succeeded, and our ROK forces fought bravely."
"Yes, good news. I passed on my congratulations to General MacArthur too."
Truman's reply was curt. Get past the pleasantries, to the point.
Rhee read the cue. "President Truman, I'd like to discuss what comes after Seoul."
Silence on the line. Truman drawing breath amid the static.
"The 38th Parallel."
"Yes."
Rhee went straight. Truman was direct; circling would backfire.
"President Truman, the 38th Parallel is an arbitrary line. It has no military meaning. When the North Koreans ignored it and invaded south, we already proved its irrelevance. If we stop there now, Kim Il-sung survives. His army rebuilds. The Soviets and Chinese rearm it. And in a few years, they invade again."
Desperation laced Rhee's voice. To Truman, diplomacy. To Rhee, survival.
"President Rhee, I understand. The situation's complicated."
Truman cautious. He decided, but not rashly.
"Crossing the 38th exceeds the UN's original mandate. The resolution was to restore the pre-invasion status. North of the 38th is..."
"President Truman."
Rhee cut in. Diplomatic breach, but he didn't care.
"If the UN resolution means 'pre-invasion status,' that's a divided Korea. Division isn't peace. Division sows the next war."
Truman swallowing something on the line. Bourbon whiskey, maybe. He had the habit of whiskey calls in the evening.
"President Rhee, frankly."
Truman's tone dropped an octave. Farmer gone, president emerged.
"We're reviewing crossing the 38th. JCS discussing, State Department too. One condition."
Rhee gripped the cup.
"China."
The word flew across the Pacific cable.
"Troop movements spotted in Manchuria. China might intervene. Cross the 38th, but cautiously—without provoking them."
Rhee's lips thinned. Cautiously. MacArthur used it. Truman too. Everyone mouths cautiously. Why don't they see it squanders the chance?
"President Truman, China's bluffing. A nation fresh from civil war can't afford war with America. Mao's massing troops on the border to scare us."
"Maybe. Until confirmed, caution."
Truman firm. No yielding.
"President Rhee, one thing clear: UNC advance north of the 38th will be under UN approval and US judgment. Unilateral ROK crossing of the 38th..."
"President Truman."
Rhee cut again. Edge in his voice now.
"The ROK Army has the right to operate on its own soil. North of the 38th is Republic of Korea territory. Our constitution says so."
Short silence across the line. Static hissed over the Pacific.
Truman spoke. Emotion stripped—deliberately.
"President Rhee, I understand your position. This is a UN war. Not just Korea's. Respect the UNC chain of command."
UNC chain of command. That was MacArthur. Same context as his demand for ROK control north of the 38th. Washington and Incheon singing the same tune.
Rhee ground his teeth. Hand tightened on the receiver.
"Understood, President Truman. We'll respect the UN's decision."
Words said. Voice calm. But Rhee's eyes fixed on the map on the desk. Korea, bisected by the 38th. His finger slid over the line.
I said respect. Not obey.