Pot Shards: Fragments of a Life Lived in CIA, the White House, and the Two Koreas. Donald P. Gregg

to Korea, I want to thank professors Chung-in Moon and John Delury of Yonsei University for using excerpts from Pot Shards in their book Bound by Destiny, dealing with my activities in Korea over the past forty years.

      Then along the way, several close friends have read Pot Shards in its various nascent forms, and encouraged me by their comments. In particular I want to thank Lucy Blanton, Jane and Bob Geniesse, Alice Gorman, Jan Harrison, Lorrie Harrison, Carla Hawryluk, Sue and Jack McMahon, and Jane Wood.

      In the writing process, as I dug back deep into the past, people re-emerged who meant a great deal to me at the time I knew them. I believe that their collective impact was one of the major factors that led me to write this book.

      In Japan, Tsuruko Asano and Honda sensei (first name lost), both magnificent teachers, pushed my Japanese to the point that I could move freely and confidently in the cities, the small towns, and the mountains of Japan. Artist Kado Hiroshi, whose portrait of Meg graces our dining room, opened up his home and his family to us as very few Japanese did in those days.

      In Burma, Bibi and Nona, our two devoted Karen nannies, utterly dedicated themselves to the health and safety of Lucy, Alison, and John. Thanks to them our tour in Rangoon was very healthy, and all contacts with wild dogs and bad snakes were avoided.

      In Vietnam, three of my comrades at Fort Apache—Rudy Enders, Felix Rodriguez, and Dave Wilson—remain vivid in my mind for their resourcefulness, their valor, and their humor. And the late Lt. General Jim Hollingsworth, with whom I worked both in Vietnam and Korea, epitomizes America’s fighting qualities as does nobody else I ever knew.

      U. Alexis Johnson in Tokyo and Phil Habib in Seoul were magnificent ambassadors, the likes of which seem long gone from this era of diplomatic mediocrity. I loved working for them. They knew the value of intelligence and used it well.

      In the White House, Phyllis Byrne was my secretary, but she was far more than that. She was rock-solid during very difficult days.

      I was honored to work directly for Vice President George H. W. Bush in the White House. And as his representative in Seoul, I was fortunate to be able to work with President Roh Tae Woo, who got along famously with President Bush. Their teamwork produced a truly productive period in modern Korean history.

      At the Embassy in Seoul, I was magnificently supported by Ray Burghardt, the deputy chief of mission, and by my glamorous and talented assistant, Barbara Matchey.

      For the next sixteen years at The Korea Society, Fred Carriere was the absolutely indispensible man, bringing with him a knowledge of the Korean character that is unmatched by any other American that I know.

      And now, as chairman of the Pacific Century Institute, I am fortunate to work for and with Spencer Kim, a Korean-American who embodies the best of both those nationalities.

      In bringing this page to an end, I must mention the late president Kim Dae-jung, whom I grew to know very well and whose vision for reconciliation between North and South Korea will sooner or later take place.

      PART ONE: EARLY LIFE

      1

      Abenaki Scalps and a Street Fight in Circleville

      What triggers memories of the past? I was born in December 1927, and perhaps because I grew up in the pre-television age, many of the strongest links to my childhood are aural, not visual. The voices of Franklin Roosevelt and Winston Churchill are as thrilling and familiar to me as Peggy Lee singing “Why Don’t You Do Right?” with Benny Goodman in 1942. The sound of a steam engine’s whistle instantly takes me back to long train rides to my grandfather’s house in Colorado, having dreams of wild Indians in my upper berth in the Pullman car. And the cry of a loon is as hauntingly evocative today as when I first heard one in Canada’s Algonquin Park when I was five.

      My childhood, in a hilltop house in Hastings-on-Hudson, New York, was unusual. I was taught to read at a very early age by an aunt, who was a brilliant teacher of pre-school children. Before I could start formal schooling, I picked up tuberculosis at a 1934 YMCA conference in South Carolina that I attended with my father, whose life work was with the YMCA. He was Abel Jones Gregg, and he became head of boys’ work at the National Council of the YMCA, and started the Indian Guides program.

      Because I had TB, I was not permitted to start school until I was eleven, and so for the first decade of my life, as an only child, I was essentially with adults, who went out of their way to include me in their conversations, and to introduce me to their thoughts about the world.

      The first foreign issue I became aware of was Japan’s invasion of China, which began in Manchuria in 1931. When I did not clean my plate at dinner, my father would tell me not to leave “a Chinese meal” to be thrown away. As he explained what that term meant, I had my first inklings that the rest of the world was not as well off as we were.

      Through his participation in international YMCA conferences held in the 1930s, my father became aware of Adolf Hitler’s rise in Germany, and was deeply apprehensive about what it would mean. On one occasion, an American radio network played a recording of Hitler delivering a speech in Germany. My father had me listen to the broadcast. Hitler’s voice had a high yapping tone to it, and I did not like it.

      I knew both my grandfathers, both of whom lived into their nineties, and through them was introduced to our long and colorful family history.

      My paternal grandfather, Harry Renick Gregg, was born in 1852 in Circleville, Ohio. He was full of clear recollections, some funny, some violent and some tragic. He was proud to tell me, when I was a very small boy, that we were a Scottish family, descended from the war-like MacGregors, who were outlawed by the English king in the early 17th century, for generally ferocious bad behavior. Our ancestors then changed their name, if not their behavior, to Gregg.

      I last saw Grandfather Gregg in June 1950, when he was 98. We talked of the Civil War, which he remembered clearly. Most vivid was his memory of President Lincoln’s funeral train, which passed through his hometown in 1865. He said that “the silence and the sadness” were unforgettable.

      My maternal grandfather, Charles Atherton Phinney, was born in 1853 in Maine. He was a conservative, church-going man but had some wild and woolly ancestors, including “Narragansett John” Phinney, who took part in the “great swamp fight” in 1675 that was the culmination of “King Philip’s War” against the Narragansett tribe.

      And there was Mary Corliss Neff, carried off from Haverhill, Massachusetts with Hannah Dustin and her baby by Abenaki raiders from Canada in 1697. Mary has been acting as a nurse to Hannah, who had very recently given birth. The Indians quickly killed the Dustin baby, and the women plotted revenge.

      Their chance came one night after several grueling days on the way back to Canada, when, on a small island where they thought their captives had no chance of escape, the Indian captors grew careless, and all fell asleep. Mary and Hannah took three tomahawks from the sleeping Indians, and armed a young boy who had also been captured. Acting swiftly, they killed ten Indians, scalped them for the bounty then being given for killing Abenaki raiders, and escaped downstream by canoe.

      Mary lived until 1722, Hannah until 1736. In 1874, a large monument honoring the courage of Mary and Hannah was erected on the small river island in New Hampshire, where they killed their captors. My mother’s middle name was Corliss, and she was one of Mary’s direct descendants.

      The family anecdote to which I feel most closely connected concerns my great-grandfather, John Gregg. I heard the anecdote from my grandfather on three or four occasions; once or twice in the 1930s, in the summer of 1944, and in June 1950 for the last time.

      John Gregg was a huge man for his time, the mid-19th century. When he was buried, he weighed 240 pounds. He was well over six feet tall, and was immensely strong. He helped run a family dry goods store in Circleville, and people would gather to watch him unload wagonloads of produce. He was noted for lifting heavy barrels of sorghum over his head and carrying them into his store.

      One day a large, tough-looking man came into the family store, sized up