In the fall of 1957, I arrived in Korea and was assigned to the 127^th Signal Battalion, 7^th Infantry Division, Tong du Chon-ni, not far from the southern limits of the DMZ. The battalion Executive Officer met me at the railhead and informed me I would be the Battalion Intelligence-Security and Operations Officer.

After getting settled in my new job, I asked him where the MARS station was. To my astonishment he reacted negatively. “There isn’t any,” he responded, “and there won’t be any in this battalion.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

I don’t recall now, some 45 years later, what he said, but it was to the effect that he felt MARS was a waste of time, personnel and resources.

That surprised me and I left the subject alone for a week or so, then asked him if he objected if I canvassed the division command post area for any licensed amateur radio operators who would be interested in opening a MARS station —not in the Signal Battalion. He indicated no objections, and I placed a notice in the Division’s Daily Bulletin.

            In a few days I got a phone call from a couple of Hams in the 13^th Engineer Battalion, located about a mile from our headquarters. They were excited by the prospect, said they had an AN/GRC-19 transceiver that we could use to get things rolling. Coordinating the arrangements with Division, 13^th Engineers and the Eighth Army MARS director in Seoul, I got Division G-3 to appoint me Division MARS Director and we received our license. I cannot remember our call sign now, but it began with AB4 “something” (Army MARS stations in Korea are now ABM4).

Through the efforts of the Hams in the Engineer Battalion, 7^th Division MARS went on the air for the first time since the end of active hostilities from the back of a ¾ ton truck using a jury-rigged dipole and the aforementioned GRC-19. By then, the weather had turned chilly; temperatures below zero. And the uniform for the MARS operators — and everyone else in that cold valley — was parka, Mickey Mouse boots and anything else one could pull on for warmth. 

To my disbelief, my boss was displeased and registered his feelings with me rather pointedly. (It should be noted at this point that Major X, the Exec, was later relieved and returned to the States “under less than favorable circumstances,” as recounted via the “MARS Grapevine.” (Long story; ‘nuff said.) This occurred after I was transferred to the UN Support Group at Panmunjom.)

In January of ’58, I received orders assigning me as Signal Officer to the U.S. Army Support Group, Joint Security Area, Panmunjom where I took up my duties at the United Nations Advance Camp, a few yards from the barbed wire marking the southern limit of the DMZ. The MARS station at 7^th ID was left in the capable hands of a Sergeant First Class — a W6, as I recall — and it continued to function well throughout my tour.

The first thing my new C.O. at Advance Camp told me was, “Stephens, make my radios work.”

“Yes Sir!”

To my horror, I learned that (1) the HF radio (AN/GRC-26) that was tasked with communicating with HQ, Eighth Army, especially in the event of a North Korean offensive, (2) a couple of smaller HF transceivers (SCR-694s, I think), and (3) several of the jeep mounted FM radios were all inoperable. How this  occurred, I never learned. For it to have happened at all in one of the major hot spots of the Cold War was unbelievable.

However, all were repaired and operational within three weeks. So now was the time to approach the Old Man about setting up a MARS station. He was enthusiastic when I explained what MARS was about and we became AB4CA (now ABM4AC, I believe).

Getting AB4CA on the air was about as exciting to me as when I got my first “ticket” in ’56 as W6EJZ. But I think it was equally exciting for the troops stationed at Advance Camp, especially my radio ops in the Signal Section because now they would be able to keep their skills sharp, operating every day, albeit in the MARS nets (Eighth Army nets were pretty much on a standby, as needed basis at that time, so operators didn’t see a lot of activity beyond weekly testing).

I posted a notice on the Dining Hall bulletin board inviting the troops to send MARSGRAMS to loved ones in the States, and advised them about procedures for their folks at home to send messages to them.

We turned on the R-390s and tuned up the big BC-610 by holding a fluorescent light, extracted from the GRC-26’s overhead, at the base of our whip antenna, and . . .

Hickam Field said, “Unknown station, this is ******. Over.”

“This is Alpha Bravo Four Charlie Alpha. Over.”

And we were in business. To my surprise, a cheer went up from the little crowd that had gathered around the hut on the back of our deuce and a half.

To thoroughly understand the feelings of these men in their isolation, you’ll need to look at a map of Korea which shows the Demilitarized Zone (NOT the 38^th parallel, which ceased to have much meaning in 1950 following the North Korean’s attack).

Where the DMZ comes to a point, about one-third the way across the peninsula from the west is where the Joint Security Area (Panmunjom) and Advance Camp is located (Advance Camp is now called something else, but I cannot bring its name to mind). And it’s several miles in front of the combat divisions, which secure South Korea. We used to refer to it as “The Rock,” not only because of its isolation but because it’s situated on a promontory surrounded by old rice paddies — and mine fields, east and west and (in ‘58) barbed wire entanglements to the north, which mark the southern limits of the DMZ.

The Signal Section’s operational buildings and troop billets occupied the highest point — in full view of the North Korean OPs on the other side of the DMZ. Looking north on a sunny day, we frequently saw the sun glinting off their field glasses.

I decided to have some “fun” with the Commies and improve the operation of our MARS station at the same time. So I asked the engineers to place three 50-foot telephone poles in a triangle on top of our hill, and my pole lineman hung up several dipoles for me, one on a Stateside phone patch frequency. (This had the desired effect on the North Korean observers. Their field glasses went into overtime trying to figure out what new installation was going in at the UN camp.)

The MARS phone patch frequency was too high for our BC-610, but no matter. Between my radio repairman and me, we built a little oscillator from the Signal Section’s junk box that allowed the 610 to reach that frequency. And contacted the MARS station at the MCAS in 29 Palms, California.

AB4CA was really “cookin’.”

Next, we put the GRC-26’s RTTY gear on the Associated Press’s frequency in Tokyo and posted the results of the big games in the States a day BEFORE the Stars & Stripes arrived in the Cavalry Division’s units to our rear. When Advanced Camp’s troops realized this, certain wagers were reportedly made which ultimately resulted in some Cav Div’s C.O.s calling mine and I was directed to “desist.” Our guys were winning all the bets.

When the AP learned that I was copying their broadcasts, they registered a formal complaint with my O.M., asking that the Army “pay for the service.” (It was easy for them to find out because during Armistice Commission meetings in the JSA, our dining hall usually hosted news people covering the meetings.) My colonel summarily suggested to them that if they didn’t like what they saw in our operations, they could leave his post. End of problem. Nothing further heard.

MARS operations in the Far East in those days were like an extended family. Hickam or Tokyo, sometimes Kadena in Okinawa opened the 15.807 MHz net every morning at 1000, Korean Time. Informality was the general tone. Operators addressed one another by their first names. Q-Signals were widely used, but most often abbreviated with ludicrous abbreviations, such as “Vicious” for QRV meaning “I am ready to copy traffic.” Or “Useless” for QRU. Station call signs received the same treatment. AB4CF at 1^st Cavalry Division was “Chicken Feathers.” (This must have thoroughly confused the North Korean radio intercept people.) AB4CA became “Constantly Amorous.”

In the summer of ’58, a group of us operators in the Far East net arranged to take R&R at the same time in Tokyo. I was the ranking man as a captain. My successor at 7th ID MARS was a first lieutenant. The remainder, from Okinawa, Clarke AFB in the Philippines and Japan were senior NCOs.

Those five days in Tokyo are still a vivid memory. I’m not sure Tokyo was ever the same. I know we weren’t.

During that get-together I learned what had happened at 7^th ID after I left.  A new Division CG arrived a month or so following my departure and one of his first questions was “Where’s the MARS station?” (It turned out he was a Ham.) When he saw the ¾ ton truck with its AN/GRC-19 and skimpy dipole, he is reported to have said, “This will never do. What is it you lads want?”

And they got it: an entire Quonset hut with new Collins gear, including amp, a big beam antenna on a 40-foot pole, and financial support from one of the non-appropriated funds.

I was delighted to hear this. And doubly pleased when the operators at 7^th ID “awarded” me a giant hand made patch, which shows a large, smug house cat, dressed in flowing robes, holding a sword pressing a battalion crest into the ground at its feet. The scroll in fancy letters at the bottom says, “Illigitimus Non Carborundum.” (Don’t let the bastard wear you down — if you need a translation.) And at the top in capital letters, a matching scroll: “Felinus Rektum.” (The Cat’s Ass.)

Other than some combat campaign medals from WW II, I think that’s my most prized “decoration.”

It hangs today in my den, along with a slightly soiled yellow and red sleeve patch that says, “AB4CA – US ARMY MARS PACIFIC.”

James R. Stephens (W7CSX/Army MARS AAR0GU) Major, Army of the United States Retired