Ever visit a location where something historic took place . . . looked around . . . maybe tilted your head to one side and asked . . . why? Why here . . . why at that time . . . why that leader? I had that very experience this past week as we toured southern Korea on what will probably be the last of our historical trips before winter sets in.
Let me set the scene for you. We’d visited Myeongnyang Strait the day before and both Noryang Strait and Sacheon Castle that morning. There was a logic present at each of those locations that made very, very clear why history was made there.
At Myeongnyang—scene of the hit movie “The Admiral: Raging Currents”—it’s obvious. In September of 1597, Admiral Yi had just 13 ships with which to stop 330 Japanese vessels. His enemy was intent upon finally securing a maritime supply line to the troops advancing north toward Seoul. So the need to fight somewhere is fairly clear.
Why Myeongnyang? The movie brings this out nicely but I’d honestly always thought the tidal surge there was exaggerated for the film . . . well . . . it wasn’t! Having been there now and stared into water flowing like a fast-moving river—forming multiple whirlpools as it did so—I can now say I understand EXACTLY why Admiral Yi chose that strait to make his stand. The narrowness of the strait nullified the enemies’ numbers, and the natural phenomenon would have greatly complicated their navigation—especially once fired upon.
The result? Yi loses none of his 13 ships and sinks 31 of the enemy, forcing the Japanese not only to retreat back to their coastal fortresses to the east, but also to give up the overland push to Seoul. Crystal Clear. Asked, and answered.
Next day we got up early and went to Noryang, scene of the Imjin War’s final battle. Once again, the ‘why’ is fairly self-evident. Japanese troops occupied Suncheon Castle to the west and Sacheon Castle to the east, with both garrisons preparing to withdraw by sea to Japan in the wake of Hideyoshi’s death. So, having promised no quarter to the withdrawing invaders, Yi positioned his allied Ming-Joseon fleet at Noryang, between the two enemy fortresses, a position from which he could interdict one or both forces as they attempted to escape.
That Shimazu Yoshihiro would attempt to come to the aid of his fellow daimyo—none other than Konishi Yukinaga, leader of the first invasion in 1592—was fine by Admiral Yi as it offered the opportunity to strike down both at once. So, sailing through Noryang Strait, Shimazu found himself under fire by the combined Ming-Joseon fleet, some 148 warships. Shimazu brought some 300 of his own backed by another 200 transport vessels. The battle raged well into the night.
The end result? 200 Japanese vessels destroyed, another 100 captured, and the death in combat of Admiral Yi Sun-sin. As for Konishi Yukinaga . . . well . . . he and his men escaped while the fleets battled on. No doubt tired of the war, Konishi apparently decided discretion was the better part of valor and declined to attack the allied navy from the west. Probably a smart decision as he was unlikely to make much of a difference in such a one-sided battle.
Once again, however, the ‘why’ is fairly easy to understand, even 425 years later. The lay of the land and seas at Noryang allowed Yi to control how much of the larger Japanese fleet squeezed through the narrow strait. Yet the much wider basin to the west facilitated him making full use of his own broadside cannons. And, of course, he was perched like a tiger ready to pounce on whichever Japanese force broke for home first.
Later that same morning we stopped by Sacheon Castle or Waeseong, one of the Japanese-style fortifications the invaders left behind. Sacheon was the scene of two battles, one on the bay just offshore in 1592 and a ground assault on the fortifications in 1598. In either case, geography makes clear 1) why this was a good place to build a fortress, high on a bluff overlooking a natural harbor, 2) why Admiral Yi was able to destroy all 13 Japanese ships he found there since no cannon had been installed in the castle, and 3) why the Ming-Joseon army found it so difficult to assault the fortress from the land side in 1598. All these things are self-evident from the couple hours we spent on site, once more answering the ‘why’ question in a most satisfactory manner.
Yet arriving at Uiryeong Battlefield—Joseon’s first land victory of the Imjin War—I stood there aghast, unable to resist asking that same question . . . why? A little background is perhaps in order.
With three armies having already taken Seoul and begun the next phase pushing toward Kaeseong and Pyeongyang far to the north, the Japanese daimyo Ankokuji Ekei led the southern prong of an intended invasion of Jeolla Province to the west. Jeolla had been bypassed by the main forces charging hard for the Ming border, but now its time had come, and Ankokuji was to be the instrument of Hideyoshi’s wrath.
Just one problem, since Japanese spies had devoted so much time and resources learning the routes to Seoul, Ankokuji knew very little of what lay between him and the town of Uiryeong. Undaunted, Ankokuji dispatched his scouts. Those intrepid men cut and marked the way westward for the army to follow. All was going according to plan until they reached the swollen Nam River.
They found the watercourse a difficult obstacle and sought a way across. Finally, finding a place shallow enough to ford, the scouts marked a lane across the river using stakes so the army could follow. When the main body arrived and began crossing over, the men in the vanguard quickly lost their footing and began to drown. This sparked confusion in the Japanese ranks. It was also the signal for local leader, Gwak Jae-u and a rag-tag band of volunteers to pour arrows down upon the struggling invaders from the cliffs above.
You see, Korean guerrillas had happened upon the stakes the night before and, once the Japanese were out of sight, moved them into deeper water, setting up the ambush. Ultimately, this allowed peasants with little military training to prevent a river crossing by professional soldiers. Ankokuji apparently made multiple attempts, but Gwak and his motley band held firm and turned them back each time. With this supporting effort undone, the Jeolla invasion was scratched and Japanese troops fortified their gains. Jeolla remained in Korean hands.
Now . . . with all that said . . . you’ve gotta see the terrain for yourself. I’ve no doubt you’d ask the very same question I did . . . why? You see, the Nam river goes from cutting through steep mountains and hills to a relatively flat plain at this very point. A few hundred meters downstream, there’d be no place for Gwak’s army to hide. Had Ankokuji’s scouts—professional soldiers all—gone a little farther, they’d have avoided the entire catastrophe. But no, they marked a route below the last bit of high ground available, daring Gwak and his men to do exactly what they did . . . attack from virtually unassailable heights.
But . . . why? Why would trained, experienced, and highly professional warriors choose to cross at that point? Why take the chance? Sure, by this time the Japanese invaders had crushed every Joseon army they’d encountered so there might have been a degree of hubris involved. A “Go ahead . . . make my day” kind of mentality.
Or maybe it was simple laziness. Cheongam Ford would have been well known amongst locals. Maybe Ankokuji’s scouts had simply gotten tired of doing their jobs . . . and took the easy way out, marking an existing ford site, inadvertently leading the army to its doom.
Though perhaps the ‘why’ lies more with the Japanese commander himself. Perhaps Ankokuji simply exercised bad judgment and led his men to disaster, no matter what his scouts reported. Later events point to that as a distinct possibility since he’d choose the wrong side at Sekigahara in 1600. And for that mistake he’d be put to death.
Regardless of the why, Gwak Jae-u made his bones that day. A yangban aristocrat-scholar with no previous military experience, he’d been denied a government position because his writings were overly critical of the regime. Deciding he didn’t want any part of government after all Gwak all but disappeared, living the life of an unemployed aristocrat . . . until the Japanese landed at Busan. Gwak quickly raised a militia force of a thousand men and waited for his chance to strike. A patient man, opportunity came to him at Uiryeong.
Gwak all but disappeared after the war, sick and tired, once again, of his own government. Despite his wartime heroics, he’d never again step onto the stage of history.
Yet I’m willing to bet that, until the day he died, Gwak Jae-u still laughed at the thought of what transpired that day in 1592, when his much stronger enemy tried to cross the river below. He too must have chuckled every time he asked that very same question . . . why?
M. G. Haynes
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