TIME Correspondent Frank Gibney was in Tokyo when the North Koreans plunged over the 38th parallel. He flew to the fighting front, was injured when the South Korean army command blew up a bridge over the Han River. He reached safety and cabled this eyewitness account of the first days of South Korea's ordeal:
FOR two days Tokyo had wallowed in rumors of the Korea battle. With communications down and only three correspondents there, very little news had got out. SCAP machinery, taken by surprise, was undecided whether it should be playing war under peacetime rules or playing peace under wartime rules. For once, Tokyo's policymakers were worriedly and expectantly waiting for word from Washington.
Tuesday (June 27) at 5 p.m. I boarded a plane for Seoul's Kimpo airfield. With me were three other correspondents-Keyes Beech of the Chicago Daily News, Burton Crane of the New York Times and the New York Herald Tribune's Marguerite Higgins.
"We Will Win." Under a rainy sky our plane hedgehopped over the broad, quiet Korean countryside. As the plane dipped over the airfield we noticed the first sign of war. Groups of American civilians were wildly waving strips of white cloth, towels and flags as a signal that the airfield was safe for landing.
Among the quiet Korean soldiers on the field there was no panic. "We will win. We will win," they said. They smiled the words with confidence. They meant them. At the same time, they did not disguise their worry. Against planes and tanks they wanted American help—and it then seemed far away.
Just in front of the administration building, Lieut. Colonel Edward Scott, tight-lipped and haggard, was methodically burning stacks of documents on the rubble-strewn concrete. When he had finished, he said he was ready to take us into Seoul.
Shortly after nine we rolled through the heavily guarded gates leading to KMAG headquarters. The shrilling whistles of black-garbed Korean MPs guided the converging streams of military traffic. Like the rest of Seoul, headquarters was blacked out.
"Not Very Good." The chief of staff's normally impeccable office had become a frowsy litter of coffee cups, cigarette butts, carbines and musette bags.
We talked with Lieut. Colonel W. H. Sterling Wright, a youngish, handsome cavalryman who, as chief of staff, was now KMAG's acting commander. Wright quickly explained the situation. "Fluid but hopeful" was the way he summed it up. Korean officers who entered the room were more pessimistic. Tall, round-faced Colonel Kim Pak II, ex-Japanese army captain, now generally accredited the Korean army's smartest staffman, shook hands with me warmly, but his usual cheerful manner had given way to worried tenseness. "Not very good . . . not very good."
Shortly before midnight we all turned in.
At 2:15 the telephone rang. We got a warning from headquarters. "It looks bad. I think they've broken through. You'd better get out of here as fast as you can. Head south for Suwon."