Countenance of Man

by Matthew Nuth

  The squad had moved back an additional thousand yards from the trenchers that were exposed to mortar fire to the comparative safety of the service road to break for a quick lunch. Paul had ordered Harris to evaluate the dozer’s left tract to see if repair would be required before restarting the work on Hill 266. They could not afford to strand their dozer in range of the mortar fire.

  Food came via a two-wheeled, oxen-pulled cart driven by an old man and his daughter. The young woman was striking. As soon as the ox stopped she hopped from the cart and began to hand out little grass-woven baskets to the soldiers. The baskets were filled with an assortment of short-grained white rice, kimchi, and grilled pork ribs, called galbi. It was a great break from the military k rations they had become accustomed to. It was obvious, this pair had taken it upon themselves to treat the soldiers as heroes and, hopefully, their country’s saviors. Upon closer look, Paul could now see the woman was younger than he originally thought. She was really only a young girl. One young enough to only be concerned with school, family, and fun; not the daily dose of death she saw here. She moved away from the cart and sat quietly by be herself next to Private Harris as he worked on the bull dozer while the rest of the soldiers ate their meal.

  Ignoring the father, Paul stood up and quietly moved toward girl. “Thank you for the food. It is really delicious. So, what is your name?”

  The girl raised her eyes to look at Paul, but kept her head tilted downwards and made no verbal response. Paul assumed she was bashful, afraid, or more likely both and certainly understood little English. Oh well, he had tried. As Paul began to turn away, the girl reached out her hand and quietly grabbed his pant leg. Startled by the contact Paul responded “What the . . .”

  The young woman’s eyes darted to her father then back to Paul and she turned her head slowly, almost imperceptibly from side to side. Paul took a quick glance over to the old man and realized instantly his error.

  The old man he had mistaken as the father was no such thing. Having seen the girl grab the soldiers leg he knew he was discovered. Jumping quickly to the cart. He reached inside to pull the deadly “burp” gun from where it had been hiding below the food-filled, harmless lunch baskets. He turned towards the girl and Paul pulling the trigger at the same time, spitting an arc of lead toward the American.

  Paul jumped in front of the girl while pulling his military issue Colt 45 from his hip holster. Adrenaline was no longer an enemy for Paul as it had been when he first became a soldier. Now he had now mastered his nerves, and the adrenaline merely made him acute, faster and accurate. Paul put four quick rounds into the old man’s chest dropping him almost instantly, but not before carnage had been inflicted. With the first snapping from the machine gun, all the squad members dropped their lunches and had either grabbed for weapons or jumped for cover. All members but Harris. He had had his back to the team working on the track as the old man had opened up with the sub-machine gun, had taken one of the first bullets to the right side of his neck, and was now bleeding profusely. He had sat down against the track and would bleed out quickly. There was nothing that could be done to save him.

  The young girl had moved to Harris’s side and was holding her hands against the wound trying to squelch the bleeding. Harris looked at her, smiled, and was gone. The bleeding slowed to a trickle. Seo-Young cried. “I so sorry! I so sorry! He was going to kill my Auntee. I so sorry.”

  After radioing for a medic, Paul and the team had settled to hear Seo-Young’s story. She had no idea who the old man had been other than he had stopped her just before she was to enter Camp Castle today to sell her lunches. She had been bringing lunches each day for the past three weeks to earn what little money she could for her Aunt and her Aunt’s family.

  Seo-Young’s father had been an instructor at the centuries-old Koryo Songgyungwan University before the war when the NKPA had crossed over the 38th parallel to impose their will on the south. Her family had gone into hiding until, upon giving up hope of rescue, they had decided to run. Two months ago, their journey stopped. Her family was destroyed just as they were to cross over the Han river to safety.

  Her mother had been beaten until she fell unconscious onto her face. The North Korean Officer that had captured them, pulled her up to her knees by the hair just to fire his pistol into the back of her head. Her father was forced to watch. He then was beaten, pulled to his feet, had his hands tied behind his back and began the long march back to the north; no doubt, a march that would end at one of the many labor death camps that defined the North Korean dictator Kim Il-Sung.

  By sheer luck, Seo-Young would owe her life to a bowel-movement. She had moved off the road to hide behind some bushes to relieve herself when she heard the sound of her mother’s scream. Staying low to the ground, Seo-Young saw and heard everything. She continued to lay hidden long after the North Koreans had left, frozen in fear. After night fall, she had recovered from her fear and shock to rise and return to the road. She held her mother’s lifeless hand until the sky to the east began to show grey with the earliest morning light. She then slid into the water to cross to the south. She had made it to her Auntee three weeks ago, and had finally started falling into a good routine, until today.

  * * *

  I pulled a yellow, lined sheet of tablet paper from Dad’s blue book. This one looked to be written in the hand of an older “Paul,” lacking the free flow of Dad’s earlier years. In spite of the relative newness to the book, the paper had obviously been folded and unfolded a number of times. I handled it gently as to not tear the folds.

  So young, but too old.

  Wise, but not so much as to intimidate.

  I think your soul is better than mine;

  I need to work on mine for a little longer

  Maybe our souls are but a work in progress

  Moving on from this Earth as soon as complete.

  . . . unless borne good as yours.

  I think yours was always good and complete;

  A marked contrast to the one borrowing my body,

  Portending to probity and mercy;

  All the while looking not to be truly discovered.

  But, alas your years were too short.

  Perhaps the soul always knew when its life here was to be done

  Racing to finish long before mine.

  Yes, I misled, ignored and lied to you,

  * * *

  Jackson and Paul sat quietly together, both staring at their drinks; a beer for Jackson, a watered-down whiskey in front of Paul. “I fell asleep at the switch today, Jackson. I royally fucked up. No way I should have missed that the chink was not a refugee. He was way too quiet.”

  “Bullshit, Paul. You didn’t do anything wrong. Funny how you white guys are willin’ to take blame when there is no blame to be had, but when there is, most of you just point the finger at someone else. Thank God you are not like the rest. Shit, if Grey was here, he’d be blamin’ me saying my bein’ colored attracted the . . .”

  Jackson, stopped mid-sentence as he saw a little girl walking over to their table. “Hey, Paul, don’t look now, but I think you have a new kid.” Smiling he continued, “and you didn’t even have the fun dinking her mom.”

  “Shut it, Jackson. Man, her Mom’s dead; killed a couple of months ago, up north.” The girl had been shadowing Paul ever since Harris’s murder this afternoon. He had thought he would get a couple hours of peace from her by ducking into the bar. He had been annoyed when Seo-Young had not given up and gone home to her Auntee. Instead, she had taken up vigil by the door, sitting in the dust with her back propped against a tent post.

  Seo-Young pulled up a chair and hopped up on her knees bringing her head to the same level as Jackson and Paul. “So are you going to buy me a drink Mister Army Man. And you still owe me for lunch today.”

  Paul was shocked that a girl no more than 12 years old could act as though the actions
of today had never happened. She had really developed a tough skin, or she put on one hell of an act.

  “Little girl, you’re way too young to be in here. Why aren’t you at home safe with your Auntee?” Then shooing her away with his hand the same way one might with a bothersome fly, Paul continued, “Go on, git out ‘a here.”

  “No way, Mister Army Man. I can’t go home without my money. No money, Auntee cannot make food tomorrow. We go hungry. And I am not too young to be here. I think of age as being about how many years you have left. Maybe I am a lot older than you, Mister Army Man. My life might end tomorrow, but you will likely live long and have lots of “Seo-Youngs” as your children. So please do not tell me to leave.”

  Paul was taken back, not only by the little girl’s moxie, but by the sheer sadness of realizing she was right. He probably would live years longer than her and it hurt to be confronted with the truth. “Seo-Young, you have a lot of years left,” he lied. “Heck, this damned war should be over soon and you can go home.”

  “I have no home, Mister Army Man. You want to take me with you when you leave?”

  “Oh, sure, kid, I’d love to, but you know tough it is for us GI’s to adopt one of you?” Paul was skating on thin ice now. He had no idea what was involved with adopting a child in Korea or if it was even possible. The only thing he knew for sure was that he had no intent on bringing Seo-Young back to the States, but he was too chicken to say so.

  “I go to the Captain and ask if I can go with you?”

  “Jackson, come on, help me out here.” Paul looked to his friend and noticed that his tough friend’s eyes were brimming with tears.

  “Look, Seo-Young, my name is Sergeant Jackson, but you can call me Johnnie. How much does the Mister Army Man owe you for the lunch?”

  “Three American dollars is what my Auntee needs. And she will make you good lunch for tomorrow.”

  Jackson leaned to his side while admonishing Paul. Pulling out a small leather pouch with a fold-over flap held closed with snap, he said “Paul I think I can cover the lunch, but you have to pick of the tab for our drinks.” Without waiting for Paul’s agreement, he dumped his money out onto the table; a couple dollar bills and some assorted change. After counting out the change to make up the third dollar, Jackson pushed the money across the table to the little girl and waited for her to confirm the count.

  Seo-Young grabbed up the money and deftly deposited it into a small pocket in the front of her peasant pants. “Tomorrow you like lunch and, Mister Army Man, you can check to see how you can take me home to USA?”

  “Yeah, sure. Tomorrow, but don’t hold me to it. It might take a while to figure out how I can adopt you.”? With that Seo-Young smiled, spun around and walked out.

  “Paul, you really goin’ to adopt her?”

  “Heck, no, Jackson, but she’ll never know.”

  “But, that’s so wrong man. You got ‘a tell her. You know, you got ‘a be honest. We are honest men. When we lie it kills us. She’s had enough heart-ache. It’s not fair to get her hopes up and then dash them again.”

  Paul stared at his hands. Without looking at Jackson he said, “I guess you are right, but not tomorrow, okay? Heck, she might actually grow on me and . . . who knows.”

  * * *

  Paul was greeted by his captain as he exited his barracks. The meeting was a first in a number of ways. First off, prior to this morning, Paul could not recall ever seeing the Captain prior to breakfast. Secondly, the captain was rarely unaccompanied by one of his lieutenants when dealing with the noncoms. Lastly, the captain had checked his bravado for this morning’s request; and yes, it was a request; not an order.

  “Good morning, Sergeant.”

  “Good morning, Sir”

  “Sergeant, in a couple of days after a brief memorial service, we will be returning Harris’s body stateside. You probably did not know this, but his Dad was my Sergeant back when I went through basic and now I feel compelled to write a letter about his son’s passing. I do not have the slightest idea what to say. You have any suggestions or words of wisdom?”

  “Sir, Harris, was a good soldier. I am sure that you must have a standard memo to inform the family?”

  “Of course, and that is the point, I think I need to do better. His Daddy deserves it. He was a fine man and one that I still respect to this day.”

  “Sir, not to be presumptuous, but, if you provide me the liberty, I would be honored to draft the letter to his family.”

  “Thank you, Paul. Do you mind if I call you Paul?” Paul, shook his head. “I will ask the Lieutenant to assign a different Sergeant to your squad for today. You think you could have a draft to me just after lunch?”

  Paul returned to his barracks without breakfast. He had never written a letter to inform a family that their son had now become another one of the thousands of casualties of American casualties of the war. He felt he needed to provide honor to Harris while not endorsing what he considered to be a meaningless war. The war may be wasteful, but Harris was not a waste. He had been a fine talented, and God-fearing man that was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Paul was disappointed in himself in that the most difficult part of starting the letter was not concern over communicating a wrenching message to a son’s father and mother, but recollecting Harris’s first name, Jerry. Paul had consciously avoided getting close to his team. Harris had been a brave soul, one that shared his faith and beliefs openly, one that he could count on to sacrifice himself for his fellow soldier. Paul made a personal commitment to get to know his squad members on a personal basis, beginning tomorrow. He knew this may not be smart from a military perspective. Yes, it was harder to order a friend to potential death in battle, as if it was easy to send anyone to their death, but to keep his humanity, it was necessary. Forgetting Jerry’s name was just a sign he was slipping away from the person he had been. He pulled out a lined, yellow pad of paper and a pencil.

  March 21, 1951

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Harris:

  I write to inform you of the tragic death of your son, Jerome, who was lost to us this past Wednesday in the field of battle in Korea. His death represents a deep loss for all of us and I can only hope you can take some comfort in knowing he died protecting a peace-loving people and in the service of his country.

  Jerome was an example to all of us; a devoted individual that subordinated his safety for that of his fellow man. As we mourn his passing, we will also celebrate his life. Let Jerome’s passing not throw us into grief, but embolden our faith in God. Take comfort in knowing that Jerry’s faith in God ensures life is not lost.

  I pray his devotion to duty has more quickly brought us closer to a day of peace in this country, a day in which evil perishes and we can live in respect and harmony together.

  Sincerely yours,

  Paul, folded the sheet in half three times over, stuffed it into his breast pocket, and headed to his Captain’s quarters.

  * * *

  Tomorrow, Paul would be returning home. His 21 months of required duty was up. It had been a time much different than that of WWII. In this war, Paul had spent his entire time relegated to two encampments: his first several months had been spent grading roads just north of Pusan, while the past year had largely been spent maintaining logistics routes in and out of Camp Castle. He had settled into a routine that pretty much looked the same every day. Morning would start with calisthenics for the squads; the exercise was an effective means to shake out the cobwebs from the previous night. Breakfast was spent with his fellow sergeants, including Jackson. Somewhere along the way, Grey had apparently gotten over his racist ways and had welcomed Jackson as part of the gang. The sergeants melted away to complete their assigned daily duty roster.

  Seo-Young had become a mascot for Paul’s squad, accompanying them on almost all of their assignments except for the most dangerous; those involving th
e service road leading to hills 255 and 266, or even more dangerous, rebuilding and reinforcing the rifle trenches that encircled the hills. Not only was this last responsibility dangerous, being well within range of enemy light artillery and rifle fire, but backbreaking as well. The rifle trenches required almost continuous rebuilding and reinforcement with sandbags and timbers; all needed to be carried manually up the almost 400-meter trail, rising several hundred feet.

  On most days, Seo-Young would only leave the squad to refill their canteens or to bring them their lunch. For lunch, she would normally bring along her Auntee to serve the soldiers. They had uncomfortably become a family, using lunch to learn about each other, their families, their lives, their beliefs, and their hopes. By late afternoon, Seo-Young would return to her home with Auntee, and Paul and the rest of the sergeants returned to camp for debriefing.

  Evening was the same every day. Dinner at the mess hall and then Paul, Jackson, Grey, Henry, Knight, and Halsey would meander over to the noncom “club” for drinks consisting of warm beer or watered down, poor quality liquor. From an outsider perspective, tonight started out looking the same, but in reality, it was a night of celebration. Jackson had surprised everyone by pulling a couple bottles of George Dickel No. 12 Tennessee Whisky from behind the bar. Where it came from or how Jackson got it, who knew?

  “Gentlemen, I have saved this for when I was to go home, but I think it best to celebrate the first of us getting out of this hell-hole.” He plopped the first of the two bottles in the center of the table along with six small glasses, five riding on finger tips of his right hand with the sixth sitting over the cap of the bottle. Pulling the sixth glass off the bottle, Jackson proceeded to peel away the foil and pull the first bottle’s cork stopper. Placing it in front of Paul, he smiled and said, “Okay, Sergeant Simmons, please honor us with the first pour.”

  Once drinks were in hand, Jackson pulled up his glass “I hear, George Dickel will tickle anything. We are all tickled to death to wish you the best in your escape . . .”