Following Monday's post sharing a translation of an account of 5.18 written by a paratrooper from the Special Warfare Command 11th Brigade, here is an account written by paratrooper from the SWC 3rd Brigade.
According to a veteran of this brigade I've met who served in Gwangju (he was drafted as punishment for his student protest activities), the 3rd Brigade was considered among the best of the SWC brigades, and was involved in the suppression of the Busan protests of October 1979. Due to their reputation and experience, they were stationed in Seoul when martial law was expanded on May 17, 1980, and only arrived in Gwangju on May 20, the third day of the uprising, by which point the protests had grown large and combative to the point that, as the veteran put it, “They were driving cars at us! It was like everyone had lost their minds.”
I first found this account at this blog (and it should be here, but for some reason isn't). The original source is:
3공수여단 12대대 작전병 출신의 실명수기-『내가 겪은 광주사태』 『전투는 있었지만 학살은 없었다』 / 김치년 (월간조선, 1996. 04) pp. 422-443
“Memoir Under the Real Name of a Former Operations Soldier of the 12th Battalion, 3rd Airborne Brigade — ‘The Gwangju Incident I Experienced’ / ‘There Was Combat, but There Was No Massacre,’” by Kim Chi-nyeon, Monthly Chosun, April 1996, pp. 422-443.
The article was written during the trial of Chun Doo-hwan and Roh Tae-woo in 1996.
*******
Experience in Suppressing the Busan-Masan Uprising
As someone who now finds himself labeled as a “subordinate of a murderer who committed treason,” I want to express, through writing, the perspective of a conscripted soldier in the martial law forces. Just as not all protesters were heroes, we who carried out our duties under martial law should not be seen as criminals. The current situation, where the causes of the incident have been interpreted only through a political lens, has left many of us paratroopers unconvinced. The soldiers deployed on-site had no political affiliations and often made sacrifices under the burdens of duty. So why must we be treated as if we were guilty?
Now that even former presidents have been arrested, and with public sentiment empowered as it is, who will step forward to testify on our behalf? Many of those who served in our 3rd Airborne Brigade have stayed silent because they remain in the military or fear losing their livelihoods after discharge. I was once among the latter. After starting a business, I eventually went bankrupt, crushed by the very system of the Fifth Republic.
However, bankruptcy ironically gave me a sense of relief. I felt someone had to honestly recount the things we endured and shed blood doing back then. I now believe this is part of fulfilling that duty. I hope other special forces veterans who remember those days will also continue to speak out.
Above all, I believe it is important to clearly understand the origin of the Gwangju Uprising. From the perspective of a martial law soldier, our views on the protesters were largely shaped by the Bu-Ma Uprising (Busan-Masan, 1979). The 3rd Brigade, which I belonged to, along with the 5th Brigade, participated in the suppression of the Bu-Ma protests on October 18, 1979. From our point of view, it was a successful operation.
But it is noteworthy that the 3rd and 5th Brigades, who had that suppression experience, were not initially deployed to Gwangju. The 7th Brigade, which had no prior experience, applied excessive force by superficially imitating the tactics of the 3rd and 5th Brigades, worsening the situation instead. There was a significant difference between the units.
The 3rd Airborne Brigade was airlifted from Seongnam Airfield to Busan aboard C-123 aircraft. We were issued our precise operational orders inside the plane. Our commander gave a brief instruction: "A very serious demonstration is taking place in Busan, so we are to carry out the loyalty operation exactly as trained.”
Upon arrival in Busan, we pitched tents for quarters at the Dong-A University stadium and began preparations for a show-of-force operation. Our gear consisted only of rifles, 70 cm batons, cumbersome protective netting, and gas masks. We rode in 2.5-ton military trucks wearing white gloves and drove through the corners of the city. This display alone was enough to impress the authority of the airborne troops on citizens. Though some demonstrators threw stones at our vehicles, we simply stared forward and completed our three-hour city tour, after which we returned to base and ate dinner.
Soon after, we were deployed near Busan City Hall, where the brigade commander (then Brigadier General Choi Se-chang) issued a very strict order: "Do not respond to anything without command." As we held our positions, the number of protesters gradually decreased after 8 p.m.
Around 9 p.m., when only 300–400 demonstrators remained, an order to suppress the protest was finally given. The operation ended in just 20–30 minutes. I cannot confidently say that the baton blows we delivered were less severe than what the 7th Brigade used in Gwangju. If suppression was unavoidable, it had to be done decisively. Whether strong or weak, the difference could not be controlled. Yet, the outcome was different from Gwangju. In Busan, there were sporadic protests, but they were suppressed smoothly. The two-day operation yielded effective results, and no further protests occurred.
From this, we can see the difference between the suppression of the Bu-Ma and Gwangju incidents.
First, during the Busan suppression, and likewise in the 5th Brigade’s operation in Masan, no operations were carried out during the daytime, minimizing clashes with civilians. Nighttime suppression targeting key demonstrator groups allowed for swift operations, and even if there was bloodshed from baton strikes, it wasn’t to the extent that it would provoke bystanders like in Gwangju. As such, the protest in Busan quickly collapsed.
Second, those arrested during the Bu-Ma incident were civilians and were immediately handed over to the police, which helped avoid direct conflict between civilians and the military. In Gwangju, there were hardly any police left to receive detainees.
In Gwangju, bloodshed occurred during daylight hours. This naturally enraged the entire citizenry. How could someone not become enraged when their child or friend bleeds before their very eyes?
I believe that Korean society at the time accepted both protesters and martial law troops as necessary evils. Protests needed to happen, and national security and public order had to be preserved. Therefore, to portray suppression as entirely wrong and protesters as absolute heroes is, I believe, unfair. If we now categorically deny the legitimacy of suppression based on the outcome alone, are soldiers like us not also citizens of the Republic of Korea?
My opinion is that the mishandling of the suppression by the martial law forces should have been judged in court. Likewise, the protesters also bore responsibility. If we continue to politicize the situation while ignoring both of these aspects, it may long remain a source of conflict within Korean society.
Meanwhile, after the Bu-Ma incident subsided, the 3rd Airborne Brigade, stationed in Seoul, was deployed to Gwangju on the early morning of May 20, 1980. At 1 a.m., five battalions assembled at Cheongnyangni Station and headed to Gwangju by train. By the time we departed, the 7th and 11th Brigades were already in operation there.
At 7:00 a.m., when we arrived at Gwangju Station, we saw some of the 7th Airborne troops sitting on the station square having breakfast. They looked extremely tired and worn out. Having already experienced the Bu-Ma Uprising, we felt sorry for them. In contrast, we looked relatively relaxed.
We immediately proceeded to Jeonnam National University, had a meal brought in from a nearby unit, and then prepared to move into the city. The 1,392 troops of the 3rd Airborne Brigade who participated gathered in the university auditorium (possibly a gymnasium), where they listened to a speech from Brigadier General Choi Se-chang.
He said: "The situation in Gwangju is much more serious than the Bu-Ma Uprising. No matter what crisis arises, do not respond without orders. Since communist agitators are joining in and worsening the situation, all commanders and soldiers must carry out the suppression operation with extreme caution. Except for CS gas (handheld tear gas) and E-8 launchers (64-round tear gas launchers), nothing else is to be used. Again, do not respond without direct orders."
When we first entered Jeonnam University, most of the slogans written around the campus were in red letters. The messages read: “Release Kim Dae-jung,” “Down with Chun Doo-hwan,” “Stop Exploiting Farmers,” and so on. The soldiers, including myself, believed this to be the work of “pro-communist elements.” These days, after 1987, even if red slogans or content aligned with North Korean propaganda appear on university campuses, people are desensitized—but back then, it wasn’t like that. National security was a top priority in the political atmosphere, so red slogans on campus were shocking to us. I believe the protestors were responsible for this. Even if they were protesting for Kim Dae-jung’s release, did they really need to use red paint? And why choose slogans like “Stop Exploiting Farmers,” which were sure to be misunderstood as pro-communist?
Among the slogans were names unfamiliar to low-ranking soldiers like myself. One of them was “Chun Doo-hwan.” At the time, we thought of him as merely a powerful figure in the military. We had no idea he was commanding our unit, nor could we imagine he was in our chain of command. This shows how distant Chun Doo-hwan actually was from us in reality. At the time, the only mindset we had as a special operations unit was, “I will never forgive pro-communist activities on the land I defend. I will protect my country.”
Let’s briefly look at the composition of our unit back then. The 12th Battalion of the 3rd Airborne Brigade, deployed to Gwangju, had about 50 officers and 250 enlisted soldiers. Among the officers, around four—including Battalion Commander Kim Wan-bae, the operations officer, and the headquarters company commander—were graduates of the Korea Military Academy. Around eight were ROTC graduates, and the rest were from the Army Cadet Academy. This suggests that few officers were familiar with university culture. Of the 250 enlisted soldiers, about 25 were warrant officers, 80 were sergeants, 120 were corporals, and only about 25 were regular privates. Most of the NCOs had only a high school education, and fewer than 10 had attended college (even two-year colleges).
On the first day, our unit finished eating and was then deployed near the Jeonnam Provincial Government building. The battalion's senior NCO, supply officer, operations NCO, and I stayed at the university to organize the battalion’s operational log. I also managed the “security-use live ammunition” that had become a major issue. Even then, as now, airborne units carry live rounds during training, either for anti-infiltration or security purposes, stored in ammunition boxes managed by the battalion HQ. These ammunition boxes still exist in airborne battalion HQs across the country. However, on May 20, those rounds were stored at HQ, not issued to individuals.
Thus, when we were first deployed, only the battalion commander carried a loaded pistol. The rest of the troops were equipped with unloaded rifles, bayonets, 70 cm batons, gas masks, two CS gas canisters, and steel helmet liners. Of these, the most cumbersome were the M-16 rifles and gas masks. The gas masks issued at the time were substandard, allowing tear gas to seep in rather than keeping it out.
At the battalion HQ set up in the university campus, I operated the P-77 radio and recorded the battalion’s operational situation. The 12th Battalion of the 3rd Airborne was stationed near Gwangju City Hall as a mobile strike force. Until about 3 p.m. that day, the situation was merely a standoff. According to updates from brigade HQ, the initial overreaction by the 7th Airborne troops had generated strong public resentment, making it hard to regain control. Moreover, rumors were already spreading throughout Gwangju—claims that only Gyeongsang-do soldiers had been deployed, or that paratroopers were raping married women, drinking alcohol, or taking drugs. These rumors, reportedly gathered by undercover police, were enough to incite intense public outrage.
The battalion commander, a Jeolla native, was so alarmed by these regionalist rumors that he ordered, “Place Gyeongsang-do soldiers at the rear of the formation so they don’t provoke Gwangju citizens.”
I, not being deployed to the frontline, heard these absurd rumors through the radio and scoffed. Seriously? We were raping married women? In a war-like situation, leaving formation to do such a thing would be a death sentence—what kind of lunatic would do that? Especially in a unit composed of teams of just 12 people, two officers and ten enlisted men, how could anyone pull that off?
Furthermore, during the most intense demonstrations that day, most of our troops couldn’t even eat dinner. The food truck had been blocked by protestors and returned without delivering meals. There was no way exhausted and hungry soldiers had access to drugs or alcohol.
I shook my head as I recorded these ridiculous rumors in the log. But even 16 years later, these absurd rumors are still widely believed. It’s disheartening. Worse, it seems that those spreading such claims think it makes them part of the “heroes of Gwangju.” It’s truly appalling.
Meanwhile, as I was sorting through the rumors, the situation room began receiving increasingly alarming reports:
• The number of protestors is rapidly increasing.
• The opposition is armed with sticks and metal pipes.
• Minor injuries from rock-throwing are occurring frequently.
• CS gas is completely depleted.
• Requesting more E-8 tear gas launchers.
• We must carry out at least minimal self-defense.
These reports were sent to brigade headquarters, and soon a new operational order was issued:
"Begin suppression operations under the concept of self-defense, but only against protestors who cross the blockade line."
However, the situation continued to deteriorate. Reports kept coming through the radio:
• All tear gas has been depleted.
• Injuries are rapidly increasing.
• The number of protestors in our battalion's area is estimated to be about 5,000.
• All units must regroup and not disperse.
Around 7 p.m. on May 20, our 12th Battalion received an order from the brigade commander to support the 15th Battalion of the 3rd Airborne at Gwangju Station and to protect the KBS Gwangju Broadcasting Station. We moved to Gwangju Station and joined the 15th Battalion. As dusk fell, reports began pouring in that our outnumbered unit was being pushed back. It felt like a nightmare. We were supposed to be the most elite unit in the Republic of Korea, having gone through intensive training and demonstrations. But the reality was that we were being overwhelmed. Communications grew increasingly grim:
• Vehicles are charging toward us.
Around 8 p.m., reports of vehicle attacks came in one after another. Then, by about 10 p.m., reports of casualties arrived:
• Casualties have occurred.
• A staff sergeant from the 16th Battalion has been killed.
• A soldier from our battalion was also run over and injured.
The soldier who was run over and killed at that time was Staff Sergeant Jeong Gwan-cheol (posthumously promoted to Sergeant First Class). He had been scheduled to be discharged in a month. Moreover, his wife was nine months pregnant. News of his death caused uncontrollable anger among the fellow NCOs.
About 20 minutes after we received the radio report of injuries, the wounded were evacuated. One of them was Sergeant Jang from the 6th company, whose leg had been crushed by a vehicle. According to him, a vehicle suddenly charged at them, and he couldn’t get out of the way in time. He said the vehicle drove erratically in a zigzag toward the troops, and as more soldiers were injured, the unit panicked and scattered, while the situation on the ground grew increasingly violent.
Two civilians were also transported alongside Sergeant Jang. They were the driver and assistant of a cargo truck with Gyeongsang Province license plates. They said they had been beaten by protestors at a gas station just for driving a Gyeongsang-tagged vehicle. They looked terrified. Both had their clothes torn and were covered in blood; one had his head wrapped in a bandage. Seeing their condition left me speechless.
Around this time, desperate voices from junior officers began coming through the radio:
• We have no way to control the situation.
• We’ve lost contact with the adjacent battalion.
• Give us blank cartridges.
• At the very least, give us live ammunition to stop the vehicles.
The urgency in their voices was unmistakable. All tear gas had already been used, and riot batons were proving ineffective. About 20 minutes later, brigade headquarters gave the order to use blank cartridges and live ammunition, with several conditions:
1. Only officers at the company commander level or above would be issued 30 rounds each. (Each airborne battalion has 16 companies, organized into 4 area companies with 4 companies each. These are referred to as “teams,” and the team leader is typically a captain.)
2. Live rounds could only be used to stop charging vehicles.
3. Absolutely no shooting at human targets.
4. Any use beyond warning or vehicle-stopping purposes would be strictly punished.
An official telegram with this directive was sent, and I, the operations soldier at the time, relayed it to subordinate units—I knew these details better than anyone.
Meanwhile, our battalion sent an ammunition box containing M-16 rounds, tracer rounds, and blank cartridges to our area of operation, accompanied by brigade personnel.
The live ammunition distributed from our unit was divided and sent to two locations. One batch went to the Sinan-dong underpass, where the 16th Battalion was facing off against protestors. Around 20 headquarters personnel and an intelligence officer delivered roughly 100 rounds of security-use live ammunition to them. The ammunition transport group, led by the brigade operations officer, headed toward Gwangju Station and encountered hundreds of protestors along the way.
The transport team struggled through resistance from the citizen militia to secure a path and eventually reached Gwangju Station, where the 12th and 15th Battalions were located. At this time, the 11th Battalion of the 3rd Airborne was surrounded by protestors near the empty lot of the Sintak Bank on Geumnam-ro. Under orders to regroup at Gwangju Station, they broke through the siege by firing tear gas and moved to join the 13th Battalion near Gwangju City Hall. Around 11:30 p.m., they finally reached the station.
At this point, a woman was driving around in a small Titan truck with loudspeakers, broadcasting propaganda. (I later learned her name was Jeon Ok-ju.) Her psychological warfare messages were relayed to me. Here’s what she was saying:
• Two citizens have been killed at the Gwangju provincial office.
• Citizens of Gwangju, rise up and drive out the ruthless airborne troops.
• Another citizen has been killed near Gwangju Station.
• They will never shoot at us.
• Citizens of Gwangju, do not fear death—rise up!
As I was writing this report, I noticed the expressions on my fellow soldiers' faces—they were visibly shaken by the psychological warfare broadcast by the woman named Jeon Ok-ju. Her psychological operations were actually intimidating soldiers like us, who were trained in special warfare. My comrades unanimously insisted, “That woman is making the situation worse—we need to kill her.” One noncommissioned officer even said to Captain Son, the company commander at the time, “If you won’t shoot her, give me your gun. I’ll do it.” But in the end, no soldier opened fire on her.
Our unit regularly trained for operations targeting a region in North Korea. Our missions involved infiltration, psychological warfare, initiating protests, and broadcasting propaganda over loudspeakers or distributing leaflets—in short, we were trained for irregular warfare. Yet we were being psychologically outmaneuvered by a civilian militia’s propaganda. In my view, the Gwangju Uprising was a kind of irregular war between the citizen militia and the South Korean army. Ironically, soldiers trained in unconventional warfare were being outplayed by amateur citizen forces.
The first day of the 3rd Airborne Brigade’s operations in Gwangju—May 20—continued until dawn the next day. When we had arrived at Gwangju Station that morning, no one expected such a situation to unfold. Everyone seemed to be hoping it wasn’t real. After regrouping at the station and trying to disperse the protestors, our unit, along with the 31st Division's security troops* and 4 to 5 plainclothes police officers who had been guarding KBS, received orders around 2:00 a.m. on May 21 to retreat to Chonnam National University. Shortly after, we received word that the KBS Gwangju station was on fire.
To this day, I regret that the suppression at Gwangju Station is referred to as a "massacre." At the time, we had no idea how many civilians had been killed by gunfire. But if it had truly been a massacre or indiscriminate shooting, surely dozens, even hundreds, would have been killed or wounded. According to what I heard from my fellow soldiers that day, they had fired not at people but into the air as a warning.
In fact, a July 1995 report from the prosecution stated that four people were killed and six wounded by gunfire that night. One NCO from the 3rd Airborne Brigade had been killed after being run over by a vehicle, and several others were injured. If soldiers had deliberately fired with lethal intent after those injuries, why would the death toll have stopped at four? I still don't understand why we have been branded as murderers.
Some argue that it was wrong not to have assigned ordinary infantry units to suppress the Gwangju uprising. But I doubt whether they would have exercised the same restraint. Even in such an explosive situation, we did not engage in indiscriminate shooting. Why does no one see that as a reason the death toll remained at four?
I believe that in life, people sometimes find themselves on opposing sides unintentionally. Just as we didn’t volunteer to become suppression forces, the citizen militias likely didn’t volunteer to be in that position either. But it is truly regrettable that now, the act of suppression itself is being condemned unilaterally.
At the same time, the fear experienced by the paratroopers deployed on the ground that day was indescribable. When the soldiers returned to Chonnam National University after facing death all day, they all looked shell-shocked. The most terrifying thing for them was hearing someone yell, “A car is coming!” Anyone who has ever stood in front of a car zigzagging toward them knows that there is no soldier who can feel safe in that moment.
One mischievous NCO yelled “A car is coming!” to his exhausted comrades who had collapsed on the floor. Instantly, every single one of them sprang up and dove for cover, believing it was real. The prank ended with the joker being heavily scolded by his comrades. It might sound silly, but watching this scene gave me a strange feeling. It showed how all day long they had used every ounce of strength to stay alert and protect themselves from charging vehicles. For them, “vehicle attack” had become a kind of trauma.
At dawn on May 21, aside from a few security guards, most of us got some sleep in a lecture hall. Around 5:00 a.m., a siren sounded. It was a fire truck brought in by the protestors. They surrounded Chonnam National University looking furious, as if they would devour us. The sun was just beginning to rise. At that moment, gunfire was heard from the protestor side. Then came a telegram reporting that the citizen militia was now armed, followed by an order to issue 10 live rounds to every soldier in the battalion. The ammunition boxes stored on base began to be opened.
The protestors, armed with rifles, drove military jeeps while waving Taegeukgi flags, moving back and forth in front of the main gate. They wore masks, carried rifles on their shoulders, and fired warning shots into the air. They, too, couldn’t recklessly shoot at us. It was only then that I realized they were carrying carbines.
At this point, live ammunition was distributed to all ordinary battalion members for the first time, and the message was clear—it meant we now had permission to fire if necessary. From a distance, the protestors came in various appearances. Some even wore reservist uniforms. Back then, airborne troops wore uniforms very similar to those of reservists. Later, claims emerged of atrocities such as rape committed by airborne soldiers. I now wonder whether the victims might have mistaken reservists for airborne troops. I still vividly remember the protestors dressed in reservist gear at the university gates.
The morning of May 21—exactly one day after we had arrived in Gwangju—was spent entirely inside Chonnam National University. From 5:00 a.m., protestors gathered in front of the university gates with trucks, fire engines, buses, and even armored vehicles.
At the time, though we described the situation as a standoff, in reality, we were surrounded. The protestors had already raided an armory and armed themselves. Compared to the roughly 1,400 members of the 3rd Airborne Brigade, they had assembled a force several times larger.
Around noon that day (May 21), the protestors rammed vehicles into the university’s front gate and forced their way in. We had to retreat approximately 300 meters behind the gate, unable to hold our position. Outwardly, we were an imposing airborne force, but inwardly we felt we were on the verge of death. Until our retreat to Gwangju Prison around 2 p.m., we had to continue an intense exchange of tear gas with the protestors.
During that confrontation, when protestors charged us with armored vehicles and trucks, we had no choice but to open fire. This was the first instance of live fire by the 3rd Airborne Brigade at Chonnam University. The soldiers who stopped the vehicles pursued the fleeing protestors into residential areas and arrested them.
Later, I learned that after the shooting in front of the university’s gate, out of a crowd of about 40,000 protestors, three were killed by gunfire and three were wounded. Two of the arrested protestors who were sent to Gwangju Prison later died from blunt force trauma.
I don’t know what to say to those who died. In this situation, I can only say that everyone was a victim of tragedy. One of the deceased was later confirmed to be a woman who was eight months pregnant. A warning shot must have taken her life. But why was she in such a chaotic scene in that condition?
Even so, using her death to claim that “paratroopers shot a pregnant woman to death” is no different from exploiting the dead for propaganda. I believe none of the soldiers who fired that day knowingly aimed at her. Nevertheless, the media, politicians, and the majority of the public have come to portray all paratroopers as brutal killers.
Whenever I hear things like that, I, and many other paratroopers, feel completely demoralized. We’re supposed to throw ourselves into enemy territory in wartime—but should we still be expected to do so while being treated this way? Why did we endure such grueling training?
While we were confronting the citizen militia, we received a telegram stating that an attack on Gwangju Prison was underway and that many political offenders were imprisoned there, making it imperative to defend the facility. At the time, we had about 20 captured protestors. Most had been stripped of their shirts, and had labels like “driver” or “protestor” written on their backs in marker to classify them. A considerable number of them were people who had been captured after charging forward in vehicles and armored personnel carriers.
These protestors, along with some wounded and a small number of soldiers, were loaded onto vehicles and sent ahead to Gwangju Prison. The rest of us soon began marching on foot along the Honam Expressway. This was around 2 p.m. on May 21. The group that went by vehicle transported the detainees in a military truck.
There was something strange about this conflict from the beginning. For the protestors, we were clearly the enemy—but to us, the protestors didn’t feel like clear enemies. Aside from a few so-called “ringleaders,” we didn’t harbor hostility toward the protestors as a whole. And even the term “ringleader” was vague. Although we were surrounded and under psychological pressure at the provincial office and university gates, we refrained from indiscriminate fire. I think it’s because, deep down, we all held back from fully recognizing the protestors as “the enemy.”
When citizen militia members charged toward us waving Taegeukgi flags and singing the national anthem, how could we tell who the enemy was? That’s why we held our fire. But once the “ringleaders” were arrested, the anger we had been suppressing finally exploded. Of course, the people on the receiving end must have felt wronged—but we felt the same.
After leaving Chonnam University, we marched in double file along the Honam Expressway for about 30 minutes. Suddenly, someone shouted from the rear, “A truck is coming!” When we turned around, we saw two 2.5-ton military trucks speeding toward us while firing LMG-30 machine guns. Our troops, who had been marching on both sides of the highway, dove into the roadside ditches. None of us could return fire—it would have been like firing at our comrades across the road. The trucks took some fire from the lead troops but managed to escape unharmed.
We hurried to Gwangju Prison, and our battalion was deployed on the right side of the prison entrance, facing Gwangju city and adjacent to the expressway. Meanwhile, the neighboring 3rd Airborne 15th Battalion arrived at a gas station in front of the prison. While exchanging duties with the 31st Division, they were ambushed by two high-speed buses armed with carbines, and one of their troops was injured.
Shortly thereafter, a helicopter arrived, delivering rice and some ammunition, and evacuating the wounded. Soon after, members of the joint investigative unit arrived and took custody of the 20 or so captured protestors. Many of them were seriously injured.
One protestor who crawled out of an armored vehicle still reeked of alcohol and had “driver” written on his back. He had been severely beaten before being evacuated. The armored vehicle he was in remained parked in an open lot for some time.
Inside the armored vehicle I checked, there were a couple of rice balls, a bottle of soju, and a Taegeukgi (Korean flag). The young man inside, who looked to be in his twenties, was still drunk and shouting at the top of his lungs, screaming things like “Long live the Republic of Korea! Kill me, you bastards!” It was truly ironic—both sides were claiming to defend the Republic of Korea while turning the situation into a living hell.
At the time, the intelligence agents from the joint investigation team who arrested and interrogated them never revealed who incited these people or why. That remains a mystery for the martial law troops, including myself. The dominant explanation is that the citizens, outraged by excessive repression from day one, spontaneously rose up.
But those of us who were on the ground found it hard to fully accept that view. It’s difficult to believe that people would hijack an armored vehicle and charge at domestic troops—not foreign invaders—willing to die in the process. Moreover, not one of the captured vehicles lacked alcohol bottles, and none of the captured drivers ever clearly explained their motivations. This remains a puzzle to me.
Around 5 p.m., just as we finished setting up defensive positions at the prison, a jeep and a bus charged toward us. They were armed and opened fire, but no one in our unit was hit. Likely because we were trained to respond instantly and correctly to gunfire. After the brief firefight, the bus fled and the jeep, riddled with bullets, stopped on the highway. We didn’t move for 30 minutes.
When no one emerged from the vehicle, we approached it. Inside, we found two young men wrapped in the Korean flag, dead with guns in their hands. I don’t know if this was typical of every vehicle the militia used, but this jeep also contained bottles of soju, gimbap, rice balls, and ammunition magazines. The bodies were photographed by administrative soldiers and then wrapped in straw mats and moved to the area behind the prison. I suspect this may have sparked later rumors about mass graves near the prison.
During the suppression of the Gwangju Uprising, martial law troops photographed all the casualties during recovery. I accompanied those doing this work. After photos were taken, the bodies were temporarily buried, marked on a map, and labeled with signs. These remains were reportedly later exhumed after the uprising ended. I recall seeing a photo of a dead 11th Airborne Division soldier whose body had been horrifically mutilated by the militia. This wasn’t just a democratization movement—it was a war.
That night, we were provided with our first real meal: just one rice ball and some salted shrimp, but it tasted incredible. Up until then, our unit had only survived on emergency rations—compressed rice, wheat, and chocolate. Not long after eating, buses and military trucks once again charged toward the road in front of the prison’s open field. A firefight broke out as night fell.
That evening, in an area guarded by a neighboring unit, four civilians were hit by gunfire while riding in a pickup truck through an active firefight zone. Two of them died. Interestingly, they had been shot with carbines—meaning they were killed by militia fire. But you wouldn’t call this “massacring civilians by the militia.” In the same way, I don’t think it’s accurate to call every tragic event during the Gwangju Uprising a “massacre” by the Airborne Division. However, most of the investigations felt one-sided, and it seemed they were designed only to avoid upsetting public sentiment in Gwangju. How can that be a fair investigation?
That night, we remained in our individual foxholes without moving and continued to exchange fire five to six times until dawn on May 22.
On the morning of May 22, a tattered bus riddled with bullet holes stood alone in front of us. It had sandbags piled on both sides, acting like an improvised armored vehicle. Blood stains on the floor suggested wounded occupants had retreated.
If someone had been shot by an M-16 and died in a ditch while fleeing, people would say, “The Airborne troops killed someone and dumped the body in a ditch.” Or if the body had been buried hastily by comrades and later discovered, it would become “a secret burial site.”
I wonder what happened to those militia members who boarded that bus or truck and attacked the prison. We don’t know each other’s names or faces, but we were on opposite sides of the same event at the same time and place. I hope one day we can meet and confirm the facts.
Apparently, even the prosecution didn’t conduct such investigations. Even the Ministry of Defense hasn’t made efforts to support soldier morale or clarify the truth. I can only hope someone will one day set the record straight. In today’s climate of something like a people’s tribunal, saying this might get me lynched...
On the morning of May 22, our commanders received harsh criticism from higher-ups:
“You engaged in firefights all night and didn’t capture a single person—just wasted ammunition. How can you call yourselves an airborne unit?”
“From now on, only designate sniper companies and implement strict fire control.”
One thing I want to make clear: About half of us, including myself, never fired a single live round and returned our full 10-round allocation when we withdrew to Gwangju Airfield. I didn’t fire because, as a support soldier, I wasn’t needed during limited skirmishes. In a unit largely composed of career soldiers, people like me were treated like the youngest siblings. The professionals always took the lead in dangerous situations.
Yes, there were some issues with identifying targets, but most of us hadn’t slept in nearly two days, and apart from scattered gunfire, we spent most of our time trying to sleep in our foxholes. On the second day, dedicated shooting teams were formed, so there wasn’t even a chance to shoot.
The morning of May 22, we towed a bus that had been left in front of the prison. Not long after, gunfire rang out again. On a small hill beyond the main road—nicknamed “Sugar Hill” after a large white sugar advertisement—bullets came flying. About 50–60 militia members were firing toward our unit from that direction. Our battalion commander selected the most senior platoon leader’s 6th unit to conduct a counterassault. We called it “Operation Sugar Hill.”
After about an hour, we managed to capture the hill. The biggest reason we succeeded was the support fire from M-60 machine guns positioned on both sides of the prison rooftop. I don’t know how many militia casualties there were.
Once the 6th unit was rotated out and we finished lunch, a military truck came charging at the prison gate. Our rooftop M-60s opened fire and riddled the truck with bullets.
Four men jumped from the truck and tried to flee. One was shot by a sniper; the other three crawled away toward nearby houses. (A civilian passing by in another truck was reportedly wounded by gunfire and later died from complications.)
When we retrieved the truck, we were shocked to find it loaded with two crates of dynamite and four or five grenades. If they had exploded, they could have destroyed the prison gate. It sent chills down our spines.
The next day, May 23, there were a few more firefights, but the militia attacks gradually weakened and finally all but disappeared.
At approximately 12:30 p.m. on May 24, we handed over the defense of the prison to the 62nd Regiment of the 20th Division and headed for Gwangju Songjeong-ri Airfield in their vehicles. From the day we arrived at the Gwangju airfield, we resumed map-based training exercises as a strategic special operations force, in preparation for infiltration into North Korea.
If you were a soldier, speak the truth before history
The testimony of Lee Seong-u, reported in the March 1996 issue of Monthly Chosun and broadcast by SBS, closely resembles the scene at Songjeong-ri Airfield. He testified, “When I arrived at Seongnam Airfield early in the morning, I saw corpses covered with white cloths. There must have been dozens.”
At the time, while our unit was housed in one of the hangars at Songjeong-ri Airfield, members of the 11th Brigade were stationed in a neighboring hangar. The 11th Brigade had suffered significant casualties after being mistakenly fired upon by troops from the Army Training Command during their withdrawal operations outside Gwangju. About 15 coffins, covered in white cloths, were loaded onto transport planes with ceremonial rifle salutes by members of the 11th Airborne.
This funeral took place in the late afternoon. Lee’s unit, also stationed at the airfield, likely witnessed this from a distance. I believe, as suggested by a psychiatrist, he may have confused this scene in his memory. Our own brigade lost one man, who was transported by C-123 transport aircraft under the same procedure.
Three days later, on May 27, our brigade’s 11th Battalion, 1st Company, participated in the operation to recapture the Provincial Government Building. I only heard about it secondhand from fellow soldiers, as I did not participate in any such operation myself and therefore cannot describe it in detail. What I have written so far is simply what I recall with relative accuracy from over 15 years ago.
College students, high schoolers, civilians, prosecutors, and even the president have joined the militia’s campaign—and it still hasn’t ended.
After being discharged, I completed both university and graduate studies. Campuses in the 1980s overwhelmingly reflected the narrative of Gwangju as a victim. I had opportunities to see things from their perspective, and I reviewed as many of their sources as I could. But if you try to reconcile both sides’ accounts, they don’t form a coherent picture.
The record of the Airborne Division’s actions is like a torn-up photo. If you try to piece it back together, it begins to look more like a photo from a war. On the other hand, the Gwangju citizen narrative lacks the realism of a photograph—it feels more like a cartoon. Yes, the victims are real and numerous, but the alleged organized resistance is hard to find. Were we fighting phantoms?
Although it may look like we won the ten-day battle, the truth is that we’ve been losing the propaganda war ever since. First it was the citizens of Gwangju, then university students across the country, then high schoolers and ordinary people—and now it seems even the prosecution and the president are using the issue.
The Gwangju Uprising was a war!
No matter what anyone says, I want to emphasize that the ten days of conflict were not a democratization movement—they were a war.
In this irreparably scarred chapter of 1980, I remain one of the direct participants. Had I misinterpreted this event on a personal level, I might have ended up in a mentally unstable state like Lee Seong-u.
After being discharged and returning to school, I once visited the Mangwol-dong cemetery in Gwangju. I went in search of my own sense of reconciliation and humanity. I still believe that was the right thing to do—and I will always believe it. I’ve tried to maintain the same attitude toward those who died as Airborne troops. But now I feel even more compassion toward those from the Airborne Division. It feels like the world has lost its balance.
Wounds must be stitched shut if we hope to heal. Only then can new skin form and grow stronger. But as things stand now, I feel like the wound is only festering deeper.
— Kim Chi-nyeon
* The 31st Division is based in Gwangju and serves as a regional defense division for Jeollanam-do. It began occupying certain locations on the city's outskirts on May 20, 1980.
Kim's account is unique due to its description of his unit's suppression of the Busan protest (which is not as well-documented as 5.18 and about which rumours circulated at the time claiming a handful of protesters had been killed; a death in Masan is the only one to have been confirmed). In comparing the 3rd Brigade's tactics in Busan, he also describes what the 7th Brigade failed to do in Gwangju, including waiting to carry out suppression operations after dark (and after curfew) and driving soldiers throughout the city for hours as an intimidation tactic. The latter was carried out, according to a US Embassy cable, in Seoul on May 21: "In Seoul a truck convoy loaded with Special Forces troops with fixed bayonets has been passing through the streets. It is moving slowly and has the air of a parade or a show of force."
Soldiers of the 3rd Brigade may have a different perspective from those in the 7th and 11th Brigades because by the time the 3rd Brigade arrived, things had escalated (at the hands of the other brigades) to the point that the protesters had become an increasingly organized resistance capable of inflicting injuries and, once vehicle attacks were utilized, even deaths upon the soldiers. (His story of the prankster shouting “A car is coming!” and causing every single one of the exhausted soldiers to spring up and dive for cover clearly illustrates the toll this tactic took on them.) This is summed up by his assertion that "the ten days of conflict were not a democratization movement—they were a war." From his unit's experience (which did not include being inside the city during the cooperative 'liberated Gwangju' phase of those ten days), this point of view makes sense. As well, since they were not involved in the mass shooting at the Provincial Office on May 21, and comparatively few of them were involved in the final assault on the Provincial Office, there may have been both literal and psychological distance between their own experiences and the moments during the uprising that led to the most casualties, which may have contributed to a suspicion among them that some of the more violent acts attributed to the paratroopers were exaggerated. (The veteran I talked to assumed a number of shooting deaths were caused by untrained members of the citizens militia, for example.) This is no doubt due in part to the fact that the majority of instances where paratroopers fired randomly and caused loss of life, or beat people to death or near death when the soldiers' lives were not at risk, did not involve the 3rd Brigade. This applies also to Kim's refusal to consider the possibility of (what is now well-documented) sexual violence against women.
Kim and the veteran I spoke to both seem to perceive the 3rd Brigade's gunfire as self defense. Kim asks, for example, in regard to the shootings at Gwangju Station on May 20, "If soldiers had deliberately fired with lethal intent after those injuries [and the death of a soldier due to vehicle attacks], why would the death toll have stopped at four?" According to the numbers Kim put forward above, 30 rounds made available to each of the 16 company commanders in his battalion suggests there were at least 480 rounds available for use at Gwangju Station. Though updated figures indicate that seven died there, it's clear they had the means to shoot many, many more people than they did, a fact that fuels Kim's displeasure with the use of the word "massacre."
One notable discrepancy with the standard record of what happened is his statement that, in addition to using vehicles as weapons, demonstrators at Chonnam University had already armed themselves with rifles by the morning of the May 21. There is general agreement (and the May 18 Democratization Movement Truth Commission concluded) that armories were raided during the afternoon of May 21 after the mass shooting at the Provincial Office, so he may be simply misremembering this detail 15 years after the fact.
There is another account by an 11th Brigade soldier that is twice the length of this one that I will post eventually.
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