by Martin Limon
Hero Kang and I climbed out of the sedan and pushed while Hye-kyong-now admirably recovered from last night’s trauma-steered the car into the central road of a small farming commune. Although the sun was just coming up, work teams had already marched far out into the fields, carrying hoes and rakes balanced on their shoulders. Doors remained shut. Not only did no one come out to greet us, no one so much as peeked out a window.
“They’re frightened,” Hero Kang said. “Of such a big car. Of men in uniform.”
“And of a foreigner,” I said.
“Especially of that.”
Past the main buildings of the commune, the dirt road veered right and ran sharply downhill. Hero Kang and I stepped back and Hye-kyong steered around a bend into a narrow valley that held an old straw-thatched animal pen, except there were no animals inside. Momentum carried her halfway into the front entrance, and when we caught up, Hero Kang and I pushed her all the way inside the pen. After Hye-kyong climbed out of the car, we grabbed pitchforks and tossed straw over the black sedan until it was mostly covered.
“You planned this,” I said.
Hero Kang’s eyes widened. “Of course. Everything’s been planned.”
I paused for a moment, studying his face. He was happy tossing the straw over the car, happy having something definite to do.
“You didn’t plan to attack Commissar Oh,” I said.
Hero Kang tossed his pitchfork into a pile of straw. “No. That came upon me suddenly.” He pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket and shuffled through them until he found the correct one, which he used to pop open the trunk of the old Russian sedan. Inside sat a wooden crate, next to it a crow bar. He pried the crate open and pulled out the equipment inside.
My breath caught involuntarily. I recognized it from my training. A Soviet-made RPG, a rocket-propelled grenade with a high explosive projectile.
“What are we going to use that for?” I asked.
Hero Kang grinned, hoisting the weapon to his shoulder. “To stop the Red Star Brigade,” he said.
Hye-kyong reached inside the trunk and pulled out two canvas satchels. One she strapped over her shoulder, the other she handed to me. It was heavy. Additional projectiles. Then she took the keys out of her father’s hand, relocked the trunk, and finished covering the car with straw.
Five minutes later, we were marching along a narrow dirt path through a pear orchard.
We spent the night in the open, shivering and squatting next to one another for warmth. Before dawn, we were up and walking again.
“We must stay on the ridgelines,” Hero Kang told me. “Away from the cultivated valleys. Unfortunately, the Red Star Brigade is stationed the farthest away from Pyongyang. In about thirty li we should be there.”
Thirty li, or about fifteen miles.
By midafternoon we lay atop a hill looking down on a military compound, which was surrounded by a wooden fence topped with concertina wire. A few trucks and armored vehicles were lined up near sheds, as if awaiting maintenance. Still, there wasn’t as much activity as I would’ve expected for a unit preparing to move out within hours, heading toward the eastern coast of the Korean peninsula.
“They haven’t received their petroleum yet,” Hero Kang told me.
Hye-kyong said, “Do you remember the part of the briefing about fuel requirements?”
“Yes,” I said. “That was the most boring part. Very precise calculations of how many kilometers per liter each type of vehicle could receive; how many kilometers to Hamhung; how many kilometers from there, by the various routes, to Beikyang. And then calculations on how many more kilometers it would be up the slopes of Mount O-song.”
“They want to issue just enough diesel fuel,” she replied, “to allow the Red Star Brigade to reach a refueling point outside Hamhung.”
“The shortage of fuel is that great?” I asked.
During my briefings in Seoul, I’d been told that the Soviet Union was generous in providing the North Korean military with petroleum products.
“It’s not a shortage,” Hero Kang told me. “It’s part of the method of control. The Great Leader keeps each military commander on the shortest of leashes as far as how much ammunition he is provided and how much fuel he is allowed to move his unit throughout the country. He doesn’t want any commander getting any ideas about overthrowing the government.”
“As an additional precaution,” Hye-kyong chimed in, “their families, including their wives and children, are housed in Pyongyang, supposedly for the better schooling and more luxurious lifestyle. But actually they’re held as hostages so the commander doesn’t get out of line.”
“In Yim’s case,” Hero Kang added, “they even keep his mistress in Pyongyang.”
Hye-kyong turned her face as if stung.
Once again, Hero Kang realized his mistake. He clenched the binoculars he held in his hand so tightly I thought they might bust. Abruptly, he shoved them back up to his eyes and studied the compound below.
After a few minutes, in a timorous voice, Hye-kyong said, “The diesel fuel delivery will come through that pass. We must attack them there.”
“Us?” I asked.
Hye-kyong nodded. “Since the Red Star Brigade is under orders to move out in the morning, the delivery will be made tonight.”
“No earlier than absolutely needed,” I said.
She nodded again, somberly.
We crawled back down the hill.
Hye-kyong found apples.
We feasted on a ridge overlooking the narrow pass through a series of hills leading to the valley that was home to the Red Star Brigade. In the fields below, farmers worked, but none of them looked up our way. Even if they had, we were hidden behind clumps of wild shrubbery. I sat on a rock.
Gingerly, I removed the brown low quarters that were standard issue for Warsaw Pact military officers. They were made of thick leather, not very pliable, and stitched together with wire-like thread. My feet were red and tender and most of the flesh on the Achilles tendon had been scraped raw. The backs of my socks were stained with blood. I used a little precious water from our one canteen to wet them and wring them out before slipping them back on my aching feet. Then I put the shoes back on, leaving them unlaced so they wouldn’t hurt so much.
After devouring a third apple, I tossed the core away and waited for Hero Kang to resume his briefing. The plan was that he would fire the RPG at the second fuel tanker in the convoy. Then he would fire the other two rockets we had at the fourth and the sixth tankers. Hopefully they’d be clumped close enough together that some of the other fuel-laden vehicles would join in the conflagration.
“Won’t they attack us?” I asked. “Won’t the guards assault this hill?”
“There won’t be guards,” Hye-kyong said. “Only party minders to make sure that no one stops and sells fuel along the way.”
“But the drivers,” I said. “They’ll be armed.”
“Yes,” Hero Kang replied. “They’ll be armed.”
I shook my head at the lack of convoy security. In South Korea, the U.S. Army MPs spend much of their time escorting valuable cargoes around the country. But with the population here in North Korea being so tightly controlled, the Communist regime seemed unconcerned about hijacking.
“Surely they must be worried about us,” I said. “And after an armed assault on a fuel convoy, they’ll finally send forces after us, won’t they?”
Hero Kang stared off into the valley below. “Yes. They will. But like I told you before, since the moment you set foot in this country, everything has been carefully planned.”
“Good. I appreciate that. But all of this you could’ve done on your own. Why do you need me?”
“You have the most important part of this mission,” Hye-kyong said.
I turned to her. “What is it?”
“The tunnel,” Hye-kyong said.
I sat back, surprised. “You know about the tunnel. What do you know about it?”
“You must
help the Manchurian Battalion to survive,” Hye-kyong said. “You’re an American. Only you can do that.”
“Enough,” Hero Kang said. “When the time comes, you will be briefed.”
Darkness had fallen three hours ago. I had spent much of that time sweeping away the pebbles on the hard ground beneath me and rolling from side to side, trying in vain to get comfortable. My wool Warsaw Pact uniform wasn’t doing much to keep out the cold.
My teeth felt gummy, my beard itched, and when I lifted my arms, a blast of fetid air assaulted my nostrils. How I longed for a hot shower, a shave, and a warm bed with crisp white sheets. Not to mention a bowl of hot oatmeal to fill my stomach. So much for dreams.
In the distance, a low groan turned into a roar. Engines.
Hero Kang lay next to me behind a pile of rocks we’d set up as our gun position. He hoisted the RPG onto his shoulder. My job was to hand him the next rocket after he’d fired the first one, help him reload, and then prepare the third and final one for launching. Hye-kyong, against my protestations, had taken a position at the base of the hill. Neither she nor Hero Kang would tell me what she was planning to do.
In the distance, the first set of headlights appeared. More followed. The convoy rumbled toward us. I scanned the shrubbery behind us and the valley below, expecting at any moment to spot a squad of light infantry.
When the trucks were about two hundred yards below us, Hero Kang carefully sighted the rocket launcher. I held my breath. He waited for what seemed a terribly long time, until I thought he had lost his nerve and the convoy would pass beneath us unmolested. For the briefest of seconds, I was relieved that on this night we wouldn’t be firing this rocket, or blowing up fuel trucks, or killing innocent drivers. And then the night exploded.
Searing air blasted my face as the rocket whooshed off into the night. The darkness was illuminated by the explosion, and we felt the heat from our position on the hill. Someone was shouting at me, calling for the next round. I regained my senses and lifted the rocket into the hot weapon. I found the groove in the metal casing and clicked it sharply into place. Hero Kang fired again. This time I was ready, and without thinking I shoved the final round into place.
The night was ablaze.
“Let’s go!” Hero Kang tossed the equipment aside. As I rose to my knees, I spotted a figure dart from the rocks and head toward the first blazing truck. Hye-kyong. She reached an open door on the passenger side and grabbed a man by the arm, yanking him to the ground. When he landed, she knelt over him and seemed to be loosening something. After dragging him farther from the inferno, she started back toward our position. She was halfway up the hill when they opened fire. She screamed.
Hero Kang darted forward, and I followed.
The sound of automatic gunfire was constant. Flames leapt from blistering paint. As Hero Kang had hoped, one or two additional trucks caught fire. Still, there were maybe a half-dozen fuel tankers that were untouched. Their drivers had the presence of mind to back them away from those that were engulfed in flame. The lead truck had darted forward and was already well down the road, heading for the Red Star Brigade compound.
When we reached Hye-kyong, I could see that her leg was shattered.
“Here,” she said, handing me an AK-47. That’s what she’d risked her life for. More gunfire was headed our way. We crouched behind the rocks.
“Help me,” Hero Kang said.
He was trying to hoist Hye-kyong onto his shoulders. But she was in so much pain that it wasn’t easy to do without hurting her. As I grabbed her hips, she screamed. I lifted her onto her father’s back. In seconds, Hero Kang was running up the hill, sprinting from boulder to boulder like a pirate absconding with a bag of gold. The sharp crack of small-arms fire landed all about us. I crouched low and followed, a few yards between us, the AK-47 slung over my shoulder.
Hero Kang and Hye-kyong had almost reached the top of the hill when the lethal round slammed home. Kang collapsed, sliding back down the hill. On all fours, I scrambled toward him, grabbed his arms and pulled. Using all the strength I had, I managed to drag them over the crest of the hill and behind the safety of our rock barricade.
“Where?” he asked. “Where am I hit?”
I checked. The blood was gushing out of his stomach. I ripped off my cap and pressed it against the wound.
“There?” Kang said, laughing. “Not good. How’s Hye-kyong?”
I examined her. She was alert but grimacing in pain. “She will recover,” I said. “Only hit in the knee.”
Hero Kang nodded. “Okay,” he said, using the English word. “Here’s the rest of your mission. You must reach the Manchurian Battalion on the side of the O-song Mountain. Do you know how to get there?”
“I have a general idea.”
“Get there,” he said. “And then they’re going to have a job for you to do, having to do with the tunnels of the wild man. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“It is vitally important. You must convince the Americans to reinforce the Manchurian Battalion. That’s the only way they’ll survive the onslaught coming their way. We need you to go south, through the tunnels, and bring help. You’re the only one who can do it and it must be done. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
I didn’t really. I didn’t see how it would work. The Eighth United States Army was much too cautious to commit to such a plan, a plan that might embroil the entire Far East in another Korean War, but now, while he was bleeding, was not the time to tell this to Hero Kang.
“Good,” he said. “Go now. Leave us.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“You must. Think! What’s the alternative?”
He was right. They were both badly in need of medical care. In fact, even if every effort were made to immediately transport Hero Kang to a hospital, it was doubtful he’d survive that vicious round to the stomach. Even now the blood was spurting out from between my fingers. Hye-kyong would live, unless she bled to death in the interim. While I thought about what Hero Kang was telling me, I whipped off my belt and tied a tourniquet around her leg. The bleeding slowed.
I heard shouts down below. The soldiers were regrouping, preparing to assault the hill.
“No time,” Hero Kang said. “You must go. Take the rifle with you.”
“I can’t,” I said.
“You must,” he repeated, grimacing as he spoke, the pain becoming too much.
And then I was crying, so profusely I was blinded by tears. The emotion that overcame me was nameless. It seemed to include everything-everything I’d ever thought and everything I’d ever felt and everything I’d ever heard or suffered or longed for in my entire life. All of it coalescing right now, right here, with these two brave, doomed people who’d chosen to live, if only for a moment, as free souls. People who were now choosing to die as heroes.
A hand touched my face. Hye-kyong. “Find the village of Neibyol,” she told me. “It is east of here, not far. Wait there. A man called Moon Chaser will contact you.”
“Moon Chaser?”
“Yes. He is waiting for you. He will guide you to the Manchurian Battalion.”
“How will I find him?”
“He will hear of this.” She nodded toward the mayhem below. “And he will be watching for you. Do not approach the village directly. Wait on the outskirts. Word will spread soon enough.”
I hesitated, looking at the two of them. With a retching cough, Hero Kang spat up blood.
Hye-kyong struggled to a sitting position. She cradled her father’s head in her arms. “Go,” she said.
I grabbed the rifle and popped off a few rounds at the drivers below. They scattered. Then I handed it to her, wrapping her fingers around the cold metal.
“I won’t need this,” I said.
Below us, on the side of the hill, gravel spattered against stone. Voices cursed.
“They’re coming,” Hero Kang said.
I knelt before them. I kisse
d Hye-kyong’s forehead and then kissed Hero Kang’s hand. Then I rose and strode away. In seconds, I was running, gravel scattering under my feet. Before I crossed the valley, gunshots sputtered across the hill. A fiery conversation ensued. Finally, after a half-dozen exchanges, all was quiet.
Perspiration covered my body as I jogged along pathways separating night-shrouded rice paddies. Ahead loomed another ridge, illuminated by a three-quarter moon. Beyond that, in the invisible distance, the Kwangju Mountains brooded, sheltering Mount O-song, the home of the Manchurian Battalion.
10
A dirty-faced boy startled me awake. He stared down at me, his mouth partially open, narrow eyes impassive. His bamboo-thin body was clad only in a flimsy tunic and loose pantaloons, more like rags than clothes.
“Koma-yah,” I said, “mul isso?” Boy, do you have water?
The boy turned his head slowly and pointed. “Choggiisso.” Over there.
“Katchi ka,” I said. Let’s go together.
Last night, I’d found refuge in this small shed that must’ve once been used to house an ox. All valuable farm animals, of course, had long since been confiscated by the collectives. However, individual livestock pens like this one, high up in the hills on the fringes of arable land, still stood. This was the third shed I’d slept in in as many nights.
Strangely, the boy wasn’t afraid of me. He reached toward my beard and grinned.
“Halabboji dok-katte.” Just like a grandfather.
“Nei,” I said, rubbing the rough stubble. “Halabboji pissut hei.” Yes. The same as a grandfather.
From a rusty pump, the boy poured me water in a dented metal pan. I drank it down. Then I asked him, “Pap isso?” Do you have food?
“Jom kanman,” the boy said. Just a moment. He ran off.
I estimated his age, at first glance, to be about eight or nine, but with malnutrition rampant in these mountains, he could’ve been two or three years older. If he brought me something to eat, that would be good, but if he brought adults, I’d have to flee. I squatted next to the drafty walls of the animal pen and squinted out into the overcast daylight. I’d slept late. It had to be an hour past dawn. I should’ve found a better hiding place before the sun came up, but the night before I’d been making good time through the hill country and hadn’t wanted to stop until I stumbled into this splintered refuge. I wasn’t sure how far I was from the Kwangju Mountains. When the boy returned, alone, I asked him.