Ping-Pong Heart

by Martin Limon

  Ernie wound around another curve and said, “Where in the hell is this place?”

  I aimed the beam of my flashlight onto my map. It wasn’t late, only mid-afternoon, but the sky was so overcast that visibility was poor. “Not too far now. Before we hit Liberty Bridge, we’ll head on up into the hills.”

  Freedom Bridge was the largest and most famous bridge across the Imjin River. Once you crossed the Imjin there, the next stop, a few miles farther on, was the

  heavily fortified Demilitarized Zone, the only buffer between us and the 700,000-man-strong Communist army of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, also known as North Korea. Normally, the farthest north civilians could get was along the southern banks of the Imjin River. A park and national shrine had been set up by the Korean government just south of Freedom Bridge to commemorate the heroic multi-national effort that had kept South Korea a free country during the Korean War. Tour buses drove up there, people took photos by the fast-flowing Imjin, and happy couples even stood for formal wedding pictures, the military bridge lined with explosives serving as the backdrop. The waters of the Imjin sometimes held floating mines launched south by the citizens of the Communist North.

  Liberty Bridge, by contrast, didn’t have tourists.

  It was in an area that was restricted to civilians unless you lived in one of the farm villages dotting the nearby hills. And Liberty Bridge wasn’t nearly as scenic as Freedom Bridge. Instead of being suspended elegantly twenty yards or so above the flowing water, Liberty Bridge was a cement platform on concrete stanchions that was elevated just a few feet above the normal flow level of one of the tributaries of the Imjin. Why this was so, I wasn’t sure, but it was probably because this originally made it a more difficult target for North Korean air and artillery assault.

  The men who guarded the bridge wore rubber overshoes because on any windy day, of which there were many in the narrow valley, the choppy surf from the river washed across the roadway and soaked their combat boots.

  Ernie must have made good time, because when we reached the village of Tuam-dong, Inspector Kill and his officers hadn’t arrived yet. We parked near a large wooden building just a few yards from Liberty Bridge. The side wall had been whitewashed with just a single coat. Beneath the thin layer of paint, the old sign could still be made out: pink dragon club. And on the other side of the street, the smile bar and number one chop house. All closed and shuttered since the American base had been mothballed.

  The bridge itself was guarded by ROK Army soldiers. In the distance, we watched them pace the length of the low-slung cement. On the embankment closest to us, two of their vehicles were parked—one a two-and-a-half-ton truck, probably for transporting the guards, and the other a jeep with a long radio antenna for the officer in charge. We stepped away from the jeep and studied the hills that ran parallel to the river. Though a heavy mist rolled slowly in, there was still enough sunlight to see most of the terrain features.

  “There,” I said, pointing.

  Ernie shielded his eyes with his hand like a Sioux warrior searching for the 7th Cavalry. “A Quonset hut,” he said, “a few more buildings, and a guard tower.”

  “If it’s an anti-aircraft camp,” I said, “a lot of the construction will be below ground as protection from incoming rounds.”

  Ernie pointed to the right. “There’s the access road.”

  A crumbling two-lane dirt path wound up the hill like a snake climbing toward his lair.

  “They’ll see us coming,” I said.

  “If we drive.”

  “You’ve got a better idea?”

  “I don’t know if it’s better, but it’s different.”

  “Hike up there?” I asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “Hard enough for us,” I said. “I doubt Nam could make it.” Mr. Nam was a thin, elegant-looking guy, but he didn’t appear too strong physically.

  Ernie turned to me. “Who said anything about Nam?”

  “They want to make an exchange. Kim for Nam.”

  “I don’t particularly give a shit what they want.”

  “So what are you saying?” I asked.

  “I say we drive around to the other side of these hills, hike up to the compound, and take her.”

  That wouldn’t be easy, but I liked the sound of it. I was tired of the arrogance of Captain Blood and the 501st. Who the hell did they think they were, taking money from freaking North Korean spies, then harassing and kidnapping an innocent woman?

  “We should’ve brought a rifle,” I said.

  Ernie glanced toward the bridge. “Maybe those guys will loan us one.”

  The drive around to the other side of the ridge was the hard part. There were no roads. Where there were flatlands, they were mostly filled with rice paddies, and even though they’d already been harvested and were fallow now, the winter had yet to hit in full force, so they weren’t frozen and it was impossible to drive across them. The wheels would wallow in axle-deep mud. So we had to keep searching until we found a turnip patch. The farmer, mad as hell because his plants hadn’t yet matured, cursed us and waved his hoe in our direction as Ernie sped across what amounted to a couple of acres of budding vegetables. Finally we reached a solid path, and another farmer riding a wooden cart pulled by an ox nearly had a heart attack when he saw us. His first thought was probably that the Korean War had started again. When Ernie honked, the guy was so panicked that he pulled his cart off the entire path to let us pass. By way of amends, we smiled and waved as we passed, but I figured it would take him and his ox a lot of effort to pull that cart out of the ditch. Using dead reckoning, we finally figured we were on the opposite side of the compound. We parked the jeep beneath a pear tree and climbed out.

  “It’s up there,” I said.

  “I can’t see anything.”

  “It’s there, though.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Come on, we only have about an hour of daylight left.”

  Ernie grabbed the M-16 rifle and the two clips of ammunition that the ROK Army Lieutenant at Liberty Bridge had so graciously loaned us. Well, not so graciously. He’d said no, absolutely. After all, the first thing an infantry soldier learns is that his weapon is like his life: never to be given away under any circumstances. But this circumstance was that Ernie had pulled his .45 on him. When the Lieutenant still hesitated, Ernie fired a round that zinged past the Lieutenant’s head and landed in the cold waters of the rushing river. Using my best Korean, I apologized as I quickly grabbed the rifle and ammo.

  If we’d been anybody else, the guards on the bridge probably would’ve opened fire and killed Ernie and me. But we were Americans, and everyone in the ROK military knew that you left Americans alone, unless you wanted to bring the wrath of the Pak Chung-hee government upon yourself. It was a hell of a chance we’d taken, but it worked.

  And it was guaranteed that as soon as we left, the Lieutenant fired up the radio and reported it.

  “So the KNPs are on the way, and the ROK Army is pissed,” Ernie said.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “All we have to do is make sure Miss Kim is safe before anybody arrives.”

  “With guns blazing,” he said.

  We started climbing.

  -34-

  In the dark, the compound appeared deserted. No lights shone, which confirmed to me that they were underground. We low-crawled up to the chain-link fence that bordered the compound, which was rusted and deformed in places. We made our way along it until Ernie found a loose section that he propped up about six inches with a forked tree branch. On my back, as they’d taught us in Basic Training, I wriggled beneath the fence until I was inside. Then I knelt and pulled the fence higher for Ernie to slide through.

  We crouched and studied the compound. Ernie pointed, and we silently approached the big Quonset hut.

  We knew there’d be an
underground storage area for the anti-aircraft ammunition, as well as an underground command bunker. It made sense that Captain Blood would use the bunker for our “deal.” It was safe, quiet, and secure, and no one from the outside could see those lights.

  The sky was spangled brightly with stars. It’s like that near the Korean Demilitarized Zone. There are few internal combustion engines operating in the area, no factories, so the air is pure. Wildlife thrives up here. Certain species of crane and mountain hare are extinct in South Korea as far as scientists can ascertain, except along the DMZ. There are even rumors that a few Siberian tigers roam the mountains in these parts, but that’s probably just GI myth.

  We found the ammo storage facility. A huge, flat ziggurat-like structure. We gazed down the stone steps. At the bottom of a filthy pit, the iron doors were closed, but I could hear rats squeaking in the shadows around it. This was no place for humans, especially not highbrow ones like Blood. We continued our search.

  About twenty yards away, we discovered the entrance to the underground command and control center. It could have been my imagination, but I thought I saw a sliver of light seep from beneath the thick, metal-reinforced door. A shuffling noise from within confirmed my suspicions.

  “How do we get in?” Ernie whispered.

  I thought about it. “We could wait until somebody comes out,” I said.

  “That’ll be too late.”

  He was right. We had to find a way in, preferably one that would take them by surprise. How to break in unnoticed to a heavily fortified military command center, I had no idea.

  Then it dawned on me that routine operations would be conducted above ground. Only if the base were under attack would everyone in the headquarters make a mad dash for the underground bunker.

  I pointed and said, “Let’s search over there.”

  There was a square, tin-roofed building not twenty yards from the cement steps that led down to the command center. Ernie crawled to the door, reached up to twist the knob, and pushed it open. Nothing. Dark inside. We crouched through but didn’t turn on the lights. Instead, we opened the tin shutters and let moonlight filter in. There was a coffee maker on a table against the wall. I felt it.

  “Warm,” I told Ernie.

  We searched the entire building. Empty except for evidence, like crumpled C-ration wrappers in the trash bin, that someone had been here recently.

  “They were here,” Ernie said, “and moved to the command center.”

  “Afraid we’re going to dump a mortar round on them?”

  “I guess so.”

  “But they must have a lookout,” I said. “Someone to warn them when we’re approaching with Nam.”

  Still crouched down, Ernie peered out the window. “On that side of the compound,” he said.

  There was the camp’s guard tower, a wooden structure about fifty feet tall with a wall of sandbags around the top. It faced north and had an unobstructed view of both the Imjin River and Liberty Bridge.

  “There,” Ernie said, pointing.

  “Do you see anything?”

  “No,” Ernie replied. “But he’s probably there. Sitting low so his head’s not peeking above the wall.”

  “If we wait long enough, he’ll stand up,” I said. “Or someone will come out of the command center to relieve him.”

  “That could take hours,” Ernie said.

  “I’m sure he has a field radio up there or some other way to communicate.”

  Just as I’d uttered the words, a tiny red light glimmered through wooden planks.

  “He’s there,” Ernie said. “We can’t wait. We have to take him down now and use him to gain access to the command center.”

  “Good idea,” I said, “but how?”

  “I’ll climb up.”

  “He’ll shoot you before you get halfway up the ladder.”

  “No he won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’ll think what all GIs think when they’re pulling guard duty.”

  “Which is?”

  “That I’m there to relieve him.”

  “Earlier than scheduled?”

  “Sure. We all grew up watching Walt Disney.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  He looked at me like I was dense. “We keep wishing upon stars, praying for miracles.”

  ■ ■ ■

  Ernie was halfway up the wooden ladder of the guard tower when a raspy voice whispered down at him. Ernie said something short and guttural in response. I was hidden in the nearest building, within earshot, so if I couldn’t understand what he was saying, the guy at the top probably couldn’t, either. I heard him ask, “What?”

  Ernie let out another unintelligible grunt and kept climbing. I expected a shot to ring out, wounding Ernie and sending him on a fatal fall several stories to the ground like in the movies. But much to my surprise, nothing happened. Ernie was right. The guy didn’t believe that an enemy would be so bold as to just climb up to the tower, and though he couldn’t understand anything Ernie was saying, the mind has a tendency to fill in the blanks with what it wants to see and hear. This guy had decided that he was being relieved early, that he’d be able to climb down from that freezing, lonely, uncomfortable tower, return to the warmth of the underground command center, and have a cup of hot coffee with some C-rations out of a can.

  Our target at the top of the tower was standing now. His silhouette was clearly outlined by the night sky. I propped the M-16 rifle on the window sill and centered his head in the front sights. If he saw through the act of the good fairy who’d come to relieve him and tried to fire on Ernie, I was fully prepared to blast his cranium into tiny shards of bone. Fortunately for him, and for Ernie, the guy was oblivious. Ernie reached the floor of the tower and, a few seconds later, his silhouette appeared opposite the guard’s. In their close quarters, Ernie used his .45 to good advantage, threatening the guard with it, and a few seconds later waved the captured rifle over his head to signal that he’d taken control of the tower. I ran to the base and waited as the two of them—guard first—climbed down the ladder. When he stood before me, I leveled the M-16 at him. As he turned, I pulled off his helmet and tossed it into the dirt.

  Scarcely looking better than he had in the hospital, here was Specialist Four Wilfred R. Fenton, Counter Intelligence Agent, 501st MI Battalion.

  “Assume the position,” I told him.

  He did, leaning up against the guard tower. Ernie brought out a length of rope he’d found in the command shack and reached for Fenton’s wrists. Faster than I figured he could move, Fenton turned and swung his right fist around in a huge arc. Ernie tried to duck, but the punch caught him at the top of the head, and much to my surprise, Ernie dropped to the ground. Fenton charged me. I could’ve shot him, but if whoever was in the bunker heard it, that might be the end of Miss Kim. Instead, I backed away, and his roundhouse punch landed on my shoulder. This should’ve been ineffective, but pain rang through my left shoulder like a ten-thousand-volt shock of lightning. Then I saw them: brass knuckles in his right palm. Ernie was trying to raise himself to his feet, but before he could, Fenton swung at me again.

  I was backing up quickly now, trying to regain my wits from the disorienting anguish emanating from my left shoulder. I lowered the rifle at Fenton. He grinned and kept swiping at me, knowing that I wouldn’t pull the trigger. I backed away again, this time to my right, tracing an arc around the base of the guard tower. I was trying to turn him around and stall. As he continued in pursuit, he dared me, “Shoot! Go ahead, shoot!”

  Ernie was up now. But he was still too groggy to raise himself completely. Instead, he knelt in the dirt holding his .45 with both hands. I feinted toward Fenton, and the move startled him just enough for him to stand still for a moment. Ernie fired. Fenton’s chest pushed out as if he’d been stabbed in the back with a lance
and continued to explode forward. Above the gore, he gave me the strangest look, grinning as if pleasantly surprised, and then pirouetted in a large, graceful circle, balancing on the toes of his dirty combat boots, and collapsed to the ground.

  A bloody mass of flesh had erupted in the center of what should’ve been Fenton’s chest. His carotid artery had stopped beating and his wide, surprised eyes were glassy in death. A wicked-looking pair of homemade brass knuckles lay loose in his fingertips; probably something he’d made in high school metal shop. I ran to Ernie.

  “I’m okay,” he said, pushing my hand away, but he clearly wasn’t. I helped him stand, leaning him against the guard tower and making sure he switched on the safety of his .45. Then he threw up. When he finished spitting, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “They must’ve heard that.”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  What to do now? Miss Kim was in the command bunker with Captain Blood and perhaps more soldiers, and had been alerted to our presence. Our only option was to talk.

  I loosened the sling of the rifle and slipped it over my head. With the M-16 secure against my back, I climbed the ladder of the guard tower. At the top, I knelt before the blinking field radio. I picked up the mic and started punching buttons. Something buzzed. Then a voice yelled, “What the hell just happened?” I paused for a moment, and he screeched again, “What the hell’s going on, Fenton?”

  I swallowed to moisten my dry throat and said, “It’s all over, Blood.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Sueño. What’d you do with Fenton?”

  “We’ve subdued him. Do you have Miss Kim?”

  “Of course I do. And if I let her go, I get free passage out of here. No KNPs, understood? You two are going to escort me out.”

  “Where are you planning on going? This is South Korea. You’re boxed in.”

  “Not completely,” he said.