The Iron Sickle

by Martin Limon

  Captain Prevault sat back with her arms crossed.

  “So what are they going to do at the AFKN club?”

  “All their suffering had to do with signal, with communications, with broadcasting,” I said. “Now they have one of the signalmen who was a member of the same battalion as the Lost Echo. Madame Hoh and the man with the iron sickle know they’re going down. They just want to go down big.”

  “In a blaze of glory,” Ernie said.

  “Something like that.”

  “But why?” Captain Prevault asked.

  I didn’t have time to explain all I’d learned in that cave. “They have reason,” I said.

  Ernie flashed his badge to the gate guards and gunned the engine of the little jeep all the way along the winding road that led to the top of the hill above the Yongsan Main PX where the AFKN complex sat. Besides the television and radio studios, AFKN also had a barracks and a small Quonset hut set aside as their all-ranks restaurant and nightclub. The AFKN Club.

  By the time we barged into the main ballroom, the AFKN Club was mostly empty. The lunch hour rush was over. We made our way to the far side of the building and crossed a well-tended lawn to the main broadcast facility. We walked down a hallway lined with radio broadcast booths, checking each one as we went, getting startled looks from at least one GI disc jockey with earphones enveloping his head. Finally, we reached the TV studio.

  A bulb atop the big camera glowed red. The lights on the sound stage were on, bright and hot. Slumped behind the camera was a GI in fatigues, his throat cut, lying in a puddle of blood. On the stage, sprawled over the news anchor desk, lay a man I recognized. He was the one who read the officially-sanctioned world news to us every night in a deep monotone. The side of his face rested in a puddle of gore.

  “Back here,” Ernie shouted.

  The engineer at the broadcast control panel was still alive. With paper towels she’d grabbed along the way, Captain Prevault stanched the blood on the side of his neck.

  “The bleeding isn’t arterial,” she said. “He’ll live.”

  He croaked something. I leaned closer. “What?”

  “The camera,” he said.

  “What about the camera?” I asked.

  “Turn it off. It’s on. We’re broadcasting live.”

  Broadcasting death was more like it.

  The MPs shut the compound down. Nothing moved but I had little hope that we’d find them. A quick inventory by the AFKN First Sergeant revealed that one of their mobile broadcast trucks was missing. I immediately called Mr. Kill and left a message with Officer Oh. She’d relay a description of the truck, and the license number, to the KNPs.

  “Do they still have Mr. Walton?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I answered, “as far as we can tell.”

  I was exhausted but Captian Prevault kindly brought me a cup of hot coffee from the AFKN Club. Ernie and I allowed a gaggle of MP investigators to start interviewing anybody who might’ve seen anything.

  “Okay,” Ernie said. “They’ve made their statement. First with Mr. Barretsford, then with Collingsworth, and again with the two GIs in the signal truck.”

  “Now they’ve graduated to live TV,” Captain Prevault said.

  “So where are they now?” Ernie asked.

  “Koreans don’t watch it,” I said.

  Captian Prevault touched my forearm, concerned.

  “Don’t watch what?” Ernie asked.

  “They don’t watch AFKN. Not during the day anyway.”

  On weekdays, the two Korean television stations weren’t allowed by the government to start broadcasting until five P.M.

  “Okay,” Captain Prevault said slowly. “The Koreans, most of them, aren’t watching.”

  “They didn’t see the murder,” I said.

  “No, they didn’t.” She squeezed my arm tighter. “You need rest.”

  “That means,” I continued, “that they’ll want a big venue where the Korean public will be watching.”

  “Like a Korean TV station?” Ernie asked.

  “Maybe. But I don’t think so. Not now. The KNPs will be alert for that.”

  “Then where?”

  “Someplace big,” I said. “Someplace grand.”

  Captain Prevault tore open a small bag of saltine crackers for me. “Eat,” she said. I did. Before I had finished chewing, she brought me a cup of water. I drank it down.

  An army sedan pulled up outside. Somebody ran through the front door. Boots tromped down the hallway.

  “They found them,” Riley said, pushing through the double swinging doors of the broadcast station. I’d never seen him so excited or his face so flushed, except when he was halfway into a fifth of Old Overwart.

  “They found who?” I asked.

  “The man with the iron sickle. And that broad. They’ve got the old goat, and they’re threatening to kill him.”

  “Where?”

  Riley looked at a pad of paper he held in his hand. “Someplace called Kong Ha Moon.”

  “In downtown Seoul?”

  “Right in the heart of downtown Seoul.”

  Riley meant Guanghua-mun, the Gate of the Transformation of Light.

  Ernie and I hurried outside to the jeep. Captain Prevault slipped in the back seat.

  “You can’t go!” Ernie shouted.

  “I’m going!” she said.

  He cursed and slammed the jeep in gear, and we were heading out of Gate Seven, turning left toward the road that leads through Namsan Tunnel.

  In the last few days, while I’d been wandering around the Taebaek Mountains, the secret of the man with the iron sickle had seeped out to the Korean public. The story hadn’t appeared in official news outlets but word of mouth had spread, especially amongst those groups who, against all pressures, opposed the military regime that ran the country.

  Sejong-ro, the main road leading down the center of Seoul, past the towering statue of Admiral Yi Sun-shin, was lined with protestors. Up ahead loomed the huge edifice of Guanghua-mun. Many of the protestors waved signs saying “Yankee Go Home” and other things written in Korean having to do with stopping the rape of Korea and not allowing foreigners to abuse our people any longer. They might not know the exact details of what had happened with the Lost Echo but they could read between the lines. Similar incidents had occurred at other places during the war and the man with the iron sickle was making it abundantly clear that he wanted the Americans to leave. The KNPs were having trouble holding back the crowds but regular traffic had been rerouted. Ernie had to flash his CID badge at the KNP roadblock. Still they wouldn’t let us through. I explained in Korean that Mr. Kill would be waiting for us. Someone radioed ahead and within a couple of minutes, a whistle blew and the white-gloved KNP pulled back the barricade.

  An AFKN mobile broadcasting van sat at the foot of the three-story stone gate known as Guanghua-mun. In granite relief, valiant masses of workers, farmers, and soldiers strove toward the light above that was freedom. A rope ladder with wood slat footholds hung in front of the inspiring fresco. A platform used by painters and cleaners had been pulled out of reach all the way to the top. Above it, peering down at us, stood the man with the iron sickle and next to him, crouching, smoking her usual cigarette, was Madame Hoh.

  We parked and climbed out of the jeep. Captain Prevault looked up. “They’ll fall,” she said.

  “Better if they do,” Ernie replied, “when you consider what the KNPs will do to them.”

  Mr. Kill walked up to me. “You can’t see him because he’s tied up and lying down. But they used the platform to haul the American up there. We’ve spotted him from our helicopter. It’s an elderly man who matches the description of Covert P. Walton. They’re saying they want a copy of their original claim published in the Chosun Ilbo, this afternoon’s edition, or they’ll toss him off.”

  “They already told you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the government going to allow it?”

  “Impossible
. But the ROK Army is lobbying hard for it.”

  “The ROK Army?”

  “Why do you think Major Rhee has been tailing you all this time? Her faction in the command structure wants the Americans out. And this story, this ‘Lost Echo’ atrocity, is just the sort of thing to turn public opinion in their favor.”

  “But we support the ROK Army,” I said. “Why would they want us out?”

  “So they can go north.”

  Then I understood. The ROK Army wanted to be free of the controlling influence of the American government so they could convince the people of South Korea that they should invade the communist north and reunite the country.

  “So Major Rhee could’ve stopped this guy,” I said.

  “Maybe.” Mr. Kill nodded. “We think she knew more than she was letting on.”

  A massive intake of breath erupted from the crowd. We looked up. Leaning precariously off the stone edge was a young woman.

  “Miss Sim,” Captain Prevault said. Her real name, as I had learned from Madame Hoh in the cavern, was Ahn, but I didn’t have time to explain that now. The man with the iron sickle grabbed the girl by the scruff of her neck and leaned her out into the air. The crowd screamed but he held on and pulled her back to safety.

  “He’s threatening to drop her first,” Captain Prevault said, her face screwed up in anxiety.

  “It’s a bluff,” I said.

  “How can you be sure?”

  I didn’t have time to tell her all I’d learned in the Taebaek Mountains, about how these three people had suffered at the hands of the men of the Lost Echo and about how I believed they would always stick together. The man with the iron sickle was just trying to increase the pressure to publish the story of the Lost Echo atrocity and thereby permanently destroy the legitimacy of the American presence in Korea.

  I didn’t believe he’d murder Miss Sim but I had no doubt he’d murder Covert P. Walton.

  “I’ll climb up there,” Ernie said.

  Mr. Kill looked at him in horror. “They’ll kill you.”

  “We can’t just stand here,” Ernie said. “They have an innocent American up there. We have to do something.”

  “What about the helicopter?” I asked. “A sniper could take them out.”

  “We thought of that,” Mr. Kill said, “but once we start firing it would be an almost impossible shot to kill them both instantly. And if we don’t, the survivor will throw the American off.”

  “So we have to deal.”

  “Yes, but my President won’t deal. He never deals with terrorists.”

  I knew that to be true. North Koreans commandoes had put similar pressures on the ROK government in the past to no avail. Civilian casualties were just part of the deal as far as the ROK government was concerned.

  Captain Prevault grabbed my muddy sleeve and stepped close to me, completely unheeding of my rank odor. “You have to save her,” she said. “We know now what we’re dealing with. A program of treatment could cure her. She’s so young.”

  Ernie walked toward the rope ladder dangling about ten feet above the ground.

  “I’m going up,” he said.

  Mr. Kill snapped his fingers and three KNPs hustled over toward Ernie, standing between him and the ladder.

  “What is this shit?” Ernie said. “Somebody’s got to do something!”

  “I’ll go,” I said.

  “What good will it do?” Mr. Kill asked. “They’ll just kill you along with the people they already have up there.”

  “I have my forty-five,” I said, patting the shoulder holster Ernie had given me before we left Yongsan Compound.

  “You’ll never get a round off.”

  “I’ll reason with them,” I said.

  “How?”

  “I talked to them before,” I said, “two nights ago in the Taebaek Mountains.”

  “And they let you live?”

  “Yes. I believe they have much they want to say to the world. If I can convince them their story will get out, maybe they’ll listen to reason.”

  “But the government won’t let their story get out,” Mr. Kill said.

  “It’s already out,” I said, motioning toward the protestors lining the street, “at least partially, and I’m an American. I can get their story out.”

  “Your superiors will court-martial you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No maybe about it,” Ernie chimed in.

  “It’s worth a try,” I said.

  Mr. Kill thought about it. He looked up at the top of the Gate of the Transformation of Light. Finally, he turned to me. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I must,” I said. “After what the soldiers of the Lost Echo did, someone has to make it right.”

  “No one can ever make it right,” Captain Prevault said.

  “We can try.”

  Mr. Kill nodded and the KNPs stepped away from the ladder. I walked toward it, wondering if it would hold my weight. Maybe. Maybe not. Only one way to find out. I jumped as high as I could, grabbed onto the lowest wooden crossbar, and pulled myself up.

  My feet slipped more than once. They hurt like hell and the feeling in them hadn’t completely returned. Mucus dripped from my stinging nose. I did my best to place the soles of my combat boots squarely on the center of the wooden steps, but the nerves that should’ve relayed sensation were faulty. To compensate, I held onto the crossbar above me for dear life. I kept at least one foot and one hand firmly gripped to something at all times. I refused to look down, but by looking up I could tell I’d made progress. I was already about halfway up the three-story wall. Occasionally, a face peered down at me. Once it was the man with the iron sickle, then it was Madame Hoh. They knew I was coming. If they decided they didn’t want to talk to me, all they had to do was take that razor sharp sickle and cut the rope. But they didn’t. Not yet.

  I was about three quarters of the way up when the ladder slipped. I dropped about six feet and at first I was sure I was going to plummet all the way to the ground but suddenly the rope jerked to a halt. I held on with both hands but my gimpy feet slipped off into space.

  The crowd below screamed. I managed to regain my footing and breathe deeply and steadily for a few minutes before daring to look back up. Now they were both looking down at me, the man with the iron sickle and Madame Hoh. She’s the one who cupped her hand around her mouth and shouted.

  “The gun,” she said. “Drop the gun.”

  I felt the .45 tucked snugly in my shoulder holster. I looked back up at them. Both were scowling. There was no question; if I didn’t drop the gun they would cut the ladder. I didn’t even have time to scurry back to the ground. I was too high and it would only have taken them a few seconds to slice the rope that stood between me and sudden death. For the first time I looked back down. Ernie and Captain Prevault and Mr. Kill were gazing up at me with worried looks on their faces.

  With my free hand, I undid the buckle in front of my chest. Then I shrugged and let the leather holster slide into the air. I watched it fall.

  When I had first opened the door to the Lost Echo signal truck, an odor had hit me that I’d never before encountered. Certainly, it was the odor of death, of that there was no doubt. And it was of a musty nature that told of ancient things crumbling to dust. I pulled the door fully open and stepped inside. The control panel on the right was slathered in mildew. How it lived in there, I didn’t know. Where did it get moisture? And then I realized where: from the five men sitting on steel chairs, some of them with their heads tilted down in shame, some leaning back and gazing up at the roof. Nothing more than papery skin and brittle bone, their fatigue uniforms hanging off them in strips. Teeth poked out, no longer hidden by lips or even flesh on the face. Eye sockets were filled with desiccated cobwebs. The floor beneath their feet was dark, stained. Some of their neck bones had been sawed almost in half. From the scraped mud it seemed that the men had been dragged in there, one by one. Probably the survivors of the winter of starvation,
those who’d managed to feed themselves. But they’d been hunted down, one by one, and lined up in the truck like the good signalmen they were. Finally they were no longer a threat to the good people of the Taebaek Mountains.

  I pushed my way through them all the way to the back and hunted amidst the bones for the chips of imprinted metal I knew I’d find: dog tags, with their names, ranks, blood types, and religions on them. I stuffed the clinking tin into my pocket.

  Someone, somewhere, would like to know. And then I left.

  Ernie and Mr. Kill backed away as the .45 clattered to the ground.

  I looked up. Satisfied, the two faces disappeared.

  When I reached the ledge, there were no hands to help haul me to safety. I reached out as far as I could on the flat stone surface. Pushing up with my legs, I leaned forward, hoping my weight would tilt me to safety, and then I slithered onto solid stone. I hugged the flat surface, feeling the firm body of the ginseng plant pressing against my chest. I wriggled forward until I was sure I wouldn’t fall. Then and only then did I look around me. At the far end of the long stone rectangle squatted the man with the iron sickle. Behind him sat Madame Hoh and Miss Sim. Behind them, bound, gagged, and bug-eyed, lay Mr. Covert P. Walton.

  “Let him go,” I said. “You can keep me instead.”

  The man with the iron sickle shook his head. Madame Hoh lit another cigarette.

  “You’ll never get out of here alive,” I said. “What’s the point?”

  “The point is,” Madame Hoh said, “the world must know what happened on Daeam Mountain.”

  “They’ll know now,” I said, motioning toward the growing crowd of demonstrators below us.

  “Pak Chung-hee won’t let it appear in the Chosun Il-bo.”

  “He can’t stop it from appearing in American newspapers. Stringers from AP and UPI are already down there interviewing people.”

  “AP?”

  I explained about international wire services. When I was finished, Madame Hoh said, “How do you know they’ll write about it?”

  “Because of him.” I pointed at Mr. Walton. “They’ll interview him, and he’ll talk about it, and then they’ll interview me, and I’ll tell them everything I’ve seen.”