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By James Berry
Even in pitch black darkness it was obvious Lieutenant Kim was a proud nian—proud of the 4,500 throbbing horses idling quietly under the stern of his ni°tor torpedo (PT) boat, one of a precious few assigned to the South Korean Navy to harass North Korean supply lines.
I was a journalist third class. My press card contained a direct order from the commander of Task Force (CTF)-95, the United Nations Blockading and Escort Eorce, for the Navy to cooperate in get- l'ng me and other members of the CTF- 95 press team from one place to another.
This time the magic card had allowed me to hitchhike on board three vessels to rendezvous with the USS Weiss (APD- 135) off the northern coast of Korea. I "'ould help document one of the strangest military actions of the war. The commando ship, an underwater demolition team (UDT), and the PT boat would attack for the first time the communists’
• • • fish.
Dubbed “Operation Fishnet,” it was °ne of the most bizarre operations of the Korean War. So secret was the mission of Ihe frogmen, that partial details were not disclosed until February 1953, five months later. Other aspects were not declassified until 1988—probably because no one ever heard of it or had bothered to
ask.
It was easy for me to hitch a ride on board Lieutenant Kim’s PT boat. She was °ne of two motor torpedo boats chosen to Ede shotgun for the U.S. Navy’s Underwater Demolition Team 3, which was about to begin this top-secret mission designed to further tighten the noose of Ihe total blockade of the North Korean coast by U. N. forces.
The military scenario was straightforward: Disrupt enemy fishing operations by destroying the fishing nets.
The staple diet of the enemy was fish and rice. A poor rice harvest already had reduced food supplies in the fall of 1952. ^ith communist fishing vessels unable to Ply the waters of the Sea of Japan because °f the U. N. blockade, the North Koreans relied on commercial fishermen who Worked giant nets in sheltered coves all along the northern coastline. Estimates put the fish harvest at more than a million tons a year.
Intelligence reports concluded that operations aimed at the North Korean capacity to harvest its abundant coastal
The author off the Korean Coast in 1952.
fishery could dramatically affect the communists’ ability to feed their troops. Strategists determined a successful mission could remove fish from the North Korean’s menu for six months or more.
The military solution also was relatively simple, but complicated by the fact that the small force chosen to execute the plan would operate in secret well behind enemy lines, within the shadow of communist guns in the rugged North Korean hills.
The commander of Naval Forces Far East called on the underwater demolition teams. It would be the job of the frogmen to get in close—within potshot rifle range—and wreck as many of the nets as possible, under cover of darkness and, of course, Lieutenant Kim’s PT boat. The 78-foot craft mounted almost as much firepower as a Navy destroyer.
The frogmen would have their knives, sidearms, a .45-caliber “grease gun” or two stashed in their rubber boats, and little else.
Phase One of the operation launched in late summer 1952, with Phase Two following in September. UDT-5 would make the initial strikes south of the huge port city of Wonsan, located midway on the east coast of the Korean peninsula and well north of the main line of resistance. UDT-3 would strike to the north, operating within 14 miles of the Manchurian border.
But tonight Lieutenant Kim was prowling the coastline hoping to bushwhack any sampan brazen enough to run the U. N. blockade. He also hoped to capture prisoners. The PT’s radar screen showed nothing under the young officer’s studied eye. Only the muted throb of the three Packard V-12 marine engines broke the stillness.
Crack! The airburst exploded just aft of the PT boat and a shade long. Lieutenant Kim sprinted to the console and slammed the throttles forward. The PT boat shot forward and was running at flank speed in moments. The North Korean gunner didn’t have time to get off a second round before the craft roared out of range.
Close, but no cigar. Lieutenant Kim had salvaged his PT boat, his crew, a Navy photographer, and one frightened journalist clinging to the bridge who wondered why he was here just now and how fast he would sink if he had to go into the water.
An hour or so after the airburst incident Lieutenant Kim had regained his composure and resumed patrol speed. I had released my grip on the bridge.
Later, the sea was almost dead calm. 1 found myself staring into the quiet blackness trying to relax when a powerful searchlight ripped open the night, illuminating the PT for gunner on both sides. I was horrified. Lieutenant Kim ordered his signalman to immediately flash a recognition code—which the ship obviously failed to recognize. The light remained steady under the warship’s challenge. It took epithets hurled at the ship in both English and Korean to convince the crew the PT boat was on the right side. With ships of nine nations operating under CTF-95, it’s likely the warship’s bridge watch understood only a few of the more
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ta"oceedings / December 1990
internationally recognized four-letter words. At last the light went out. 1 never learned the identity of the ship. It’s just as well the skipper never learned our identity either.
Once again, the PT resumed patrolling, but now Lieutenant Kim was hopping mad and spoiling for a target. Providentially, lookouts spotted a sampan well off the coast where it shouldn’t have been. The crew manned battle stations. The PT boat quickly roared alongside, her .50-caliber machine guns tracking the wooden-hulled craft. It was loaded with boxes of supplies. Under the PT’s weapons and one M-l carbine I had had the foresight to bring along, the sampan crew was ordered to surrender.
The crew was ordered to climb on board and squat on the bow. A dozen or more grizzled crewmen complied grudgingly. Lieutenant Kim’s gunners manned the 40-millimeter stinger at the stern and blasted the sampan and its cargo to pieces. Since I had the carbine, I guarded the scowling crew the rest of the night.
The prisoners were turned over to South Korean forces the next morning after officers on board the Weiss questioned them about specific locations of coastal fishing operations.
With fresh intelligence in hand, the Weiss pointed her bow north. The frogmen rested in multitiered bunks against the slab-sided assault ship’s bulkheads. Reveille would be well into the night.
Mission briefings were informal but thorough. The Weiss would lie well off shore and launch small, lightly ‘armed assault craft, each towing two rubber boats. The assault craft, their engines muffled by underwater exhausts, an invention created on the spur of the moment by one of the UDT members, would move the strike force into the shallow water of the cove. From that point the frogmen would slip into the rubber boats and paddle to the target net.
Stealth was the key. A firefight was out of the question. A pair of dark, woolen longjohns and the sides of a rubber boat offer no protection from a bullet. That flashed through my mind as I crouched in the assault boat that moved slowly toward the communist shore. Commands were given quietly. Tension was heavy in the fall night air. Then— Brrrrrrrup, a stream of tracer bullets lofted over the tiny flotilla. An anxious gunner on the PT boat had fallen in the gun tub, squirting off a burst of .50-caliber rounds. As one, the assault boats turned tail and headed back to the mother ship. End of that night’s mission.
The Weiss steamed well to the north, looking for a fresh target. A sudden illness that struck down one of the UDT members created a vacancy that I volunteered to fill. The best way to cover a story is to be there as it happens. This was my chance to take part in an operation unique in naval history. Suitably equipped, with mask, flippers, and a cheap knife I had bought in Sasebo, the “Scribe” clumsily slipped into a rubber boat the next night.
I was assigned the port side aft station under the watchful eye of a veteran chief petty officer who took great delight in hissing, “Pick it up on the port side,” as the rubber boat moved silently across the cove.
We were in close. On the beach to starboard, the frogmen knew sentries stood near the fires that glowed in the darkness. Air surveillance had fixed the garrison nearby at about 600 troops. And Operation Fishnet was no longer a secret to the enemy.
Two months earlier, UDT-5 operating from the USS Diachenko (APD-123) had come under heavy fire while the team was close inshore. It took the combined firepower of the Diachenko, the machine guns of the assault boats, and the PT boat to cover its withdrawal. The team got out with no casualties. The Diachenko had struck six times in July, destroying two large nets. The team also claimed three sampans destroyed, two damaged, and five prisoners captured. In the firefight, an unknown number of enemy troops were killed or wounded and several buildings on shore were damaged.
I had listened carefully when briefing officers told the team members that if they were left in the water they would have to swim to the open sea to be picked up at first light. I wondered if my time at the YMCA would be sufficient.
Inshore, the noise of the surf was comforting; it could mask a careless paddle splash. Then, in midstroke, the crew of the rubber boat froze in unison. A sentry’s footsteps clumped across an arched bridge mere yards away. We had paddled too close. After an interminable wait, the paddlers stroked cautiously along the cove searching for the huge anchor line that stretched from the beach to the nets.
On the other side of the giant net a second platoon of the team also had found “Key West,” code name for the target. The smell of wood smoke from the watch fires that seemed only yards away drifted across the water.
Still moving cautiously, the frogmen located the line of floats supporting a net about 300 feet across. The floats, mostly cork or clusters of glass balls as big as a melon, instantly became a sought-after
souvenir. The frogmen quickly slashed off a section of net, hauled it across the starboard side of the raft, cutting out huge chunks and passing them over the port side to sink to the bottom.
The chief became the first casualty. A slip of his razor-sharp knife drew a heavy flow of blood. The wound was quickly wrapped and the work continued. I wished I had spent a little more time sharpening my knife. It was hard work.
The platoons worked around the outside of the floating ring, slashing apart the net they knew would take months to replace. The chilly September air was soon forgotten as the team worked and sweated in silence for what seemd to be hours. Then, a major hitch. The anchor line turned out to be a heavy cable wrapped in rope. No knife could part that.
Word was passed along, “Send us bolt cutters.” Another long wait before the tool arrived. It too proved useless. This time the word went out for explosives. The anchor line would have to be blown apart.
As swimmers fixed demolition charges with timer delays to the cable, the rubber boats headed back to join the assault craft. So far the operation was going smoothly. Suddenly, three rifle shots splattered into the water. No need for stealth now. The disciplined UDT stroked with new enthusiasm toward the assault boats, quickly got on board, tied off the rubber rafts, and roared out of danger.
Looking back over our shoulders the dull whump, whump of the explosives and two geysers of water brought smiles to the faces of the tired frogmen. Mission accomplished.
The Weiss and her commandos struck five targets in all, sending tons of hard- to-replace netting to the bottom. While the number of nets was less than Pacific Fleet headquarters had hoped for, the team also accounted for five sampans destroyed and 44 prisoners captured.
The Navy also learned valuable lessons from Operation Fishnet, including a new assault technique involving divergent types of vessels teamed with underwater demolition units. New operations were projected for spring 1953 during the height of the fishing season, but the armistice ended the need for future missions.
Ex-Navy journalist Berry is now Lifestyles Editor of the Richmond Times-Dispatch in Richmond, Virginia. He has won five Virginia Press Association awards for stories published during his 32-ycar career with the daily newspaper. During the Korean War, he spent 13 months off and on in the combat zone photographing and reporting on U.S. Navy and Marine units.
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Proceedings / December 1990