Pot Shards
Fragments of a Life Lived in CIA, the White House, and the Two Koreas
Donald P. Gregg
An ADST-DACOR Diplomats and Diplomacy Book
Washington, DC
Copyright © 2014 by Donald P. Gregg
New Academia Publishing 2014
All statements of fact, opinion, or analysis expressed are those of the author and do not reflect the official positions or views of the CIA, any other U.S. Government agency, the Association for Diplomatic Studies and Training, or DACOR, Inc. Nothing in the contents should be construed as asserting or implying U.S. Government authentication of information or Agency endorsement of the author’s views. This material has been reviewed by the CIA to prevent the disclosure of classified information.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system.
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ISBN 978-0-9904471-0-8 paperback (alk. paper)
ISBN 978-0-9904471-1-5 hardcover (alk. paper)
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ADST-DACOR DIPLOMATS AND DIPLOMACY SERIES
Series Editor: MARGERY BOICHEL THOMPSON
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For Meg
With my love and thanks
For the joys of many years
Preface
His hair was glossy, his handshake firm and dry, his glance hard and inquisitive. The few seconds in which I had his full attention left me with an indelible impression. That was John F. Kennedy at the White House, 1962, talking about counterinsurgency and the Vietnam War.
The CIA officer’s hair and eyelashes were burned away, his skin was charred, but his eyes were open and his blistered lips moved. “This is what I’ve been looking for, a cool place, me with my clothes off, and beautiful ladies all around.” A white phosphorous grenade had fatally burned the CIA officer. The scene was a U.S. Army hospital, Vietnam, 1971.
“I know how things work around here,” said Ambassador Philip Habib. “They are going to kill him, but they may wait until they hear something from me. If you can tell me who has him and where he is by tomorrow morning, we may be able to keep him alive.” The ambassador was describing the kidnapping of Kim Dae-jung. South Korea, August 1973.
Fragments of memory have persisted through the vagaries of time, like shards of pottery broken long ago. They are reminders of things from the all-but-forgotten past. When I was U.S. ambassador to South Korea, I would often stop my armored car at construction sites in Seoul to prowl around freshly broken ground, looking for ancient pot shards newly exposed. I have boxes of shards thus collected that can never be reconnected to what once was whole. I also have a vivid collection of memories that I will try to string together to create the narrative of this book.
I remember waking up one night long ago, a small boy filled with the fear of dying. I cried out and my parents heard me and came into my room. I was still snuffling, but they comforted me enough so that I asked through my tears if I would live to see the year 2000.
They assured me that I would, and I asked how old I would be when that date came.
