The Iron Sickle

— 15-

The flames in the fire pit had subsided, and the cave was even colder than before. Everything was perfectly quiet, not even a mouse scurried through the dust. The only light was a dim glow off in the distance. Somewhere out there it was daylight.

My hands were still tied behind my back, but at least I was no longer dangling by my ankles. There was no pain in my legs, and I knew that was a bad sign. All feeling was gone-maybe all life. The thought of losing my legs and living the rest of my life in a wheelchair was more than I could bear.

I listened again, hearing nothing, convinced now that Madame Hoh and the man with the iron sickle were gone. Why hadn’t they killed me? Maybe it was because death would be slower and more painful this way. And maybe they wanted to leave a message to whoever might happen upon my body in future years. What exactly the message would be, I was too hysterical right now to understand.

Or maybe the reason they left me alive had to do with the continuing drama that Madame Hoh and the man with the iron sickle were constructing. In recent years the ROK government had started inviting Korean War vets back to the country, both to thank them for protecting their nation from the northern Communists and to show off the economic progress the Republic of Korea had made. Additionally, it was a smart public relations move designed to continue the flow of US military and economic aid. The government picked up the airfare, hotel bills, and other expenses of the foreign veterans who were thus honored. They were greeted by high-ranking ROK government officials and feted with tours of industrial parks and museums and the peace village at Panmunjom and even an evening of entertainment at the big nightclub at Walker Hill. In other words, the veterans and their wives were treated like royalty. Before each of these confabs the ROK government published a list of the names of the vets and which country they were from and which unit they had been assigned to during the war.

This time, there was a veteran from the 4038th Signal Battalion (Mobile). His name was “Covert,” as the man with the iron sickle had told me. He might not have been from Echo Company, but it didn’t matter. He was close enough. I’d asked what he planned to do to this man and he told me he and Madame Hoh would decide when the time came.

Exactly when all this would happen, I didn’t know. In fact I’d lost all sense of time. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been in this Godforsaken cave. It was all agony to me. All I knew for sure was that if I didn’t get myself out of here, I’d die.

My feet didn’t look good. They were swollen and black and blue, and suddenly they started to hurt. It was a frisson of electricity at first, like sticking my toe into a live socket, but then it became gradually worse, growing like a symphonic crescendo. I wanted to massage my lower legs, maybe work some blood toward the ankles, but my hands were still securely bound behind my back. I tried to stand. It wasn’t possible. Not only were my feet screaming with pain when I placed any weight on them, my toes and my instep and the entire foot had no feeling whatsoever; they were just part of the generalized agony. Even if I could’ve withstood the pain, I probably wouldn’t have been able to balance myself upright on such lifeless stumps. Instead, I scooted through the dust on my butt.

At the end of the signal truck was a short metal fold-down stairwell. I studied the edge of the steps. On the interior the metal hadn’t been beveled to a machined smoothness. It was bumpy and appeared sharp on some edges. I twisted myself face down, lay beneath the stairs, and shoved my bound hands up to the interior edge of the steps. Pressing as hard as I could, I started to rub the hemp rope against the rough edge. I rubbed and rubbed, and the rope, I sensed, was growing warmer, but it wasn’t giving. I crawled out from beneath the stairwell and slid around the cavern, searching for something else, anything, that I could use to cut the ropes that bound my hands. Against the cavern wall, some of the rocks jutted out. It looked to me like this cavern, natural to begin with, had been widened with explosives. Probably the men of Echo Company realized they had to find a place to hide their signal truck and their other equipment from the prying eyes of scouts that ranged ahead of the main units of the Chinese “volunteer” army. They’d blown this opening, rolled everything in here, and hunkered down for the remainder of the winter. I tried not to think of their food supply.

I found a particularly jagged rock, but the sharp edge was a few feet off the cavern floor. Somehow, I had to stand to reach in. I sat with my back against the wall, pulled my feet up as close as I could, and tried to sidle myself upright into a standing position. I couldn’t control my lifeless feet, but that didn’t stop them from hurting whenever I placed any weight on them. Still, it had to be done. I kept pushing myself upright until I propped the rope binding my hands against the rock. Slowly, I slid my arms up and down, leaning into it, feeling the sharp granite begin to bite. Even though the temperature in the cavern was at or below freezing, I was in so much pain that sweat poured off my body as I worked. I sawed and sawed and finally the knotted strands of hemp rope popped loose. I brought my hands in front of my chest and tossed the last of the offending fibers into the dust.

I rubbed my raw forearms. My triceps were cramping up on me. Quickly, I plopped down in the dirt, stretching my arms and fingers as I untied my feet. Now I could stand, barely, and I had the full use of my hands. What I needed was something to support my weight so I could begin to perform something that would resemble walking. I fell back to my knees and crawled toward the fire pit. Warm embers glowed. I stuck my nose toward the warmth and blew gently, and it flared red in response. Fuel. I had to find fuel. I scrabbled in the dim light until I found a few loose branches that had probably been dropped when the fire was built. I broke them into shreds and gingerly fed them to the fire, blowing air on the embers as I did so. Gradually, the strips of wood started to smoke and then one of them leapt into flame. Carefully, I added wood until I had a fairly good bonfire going.

I began to range around the cavern.

The Army survival manual tells you that when you’re in a tight spot, even when time is running short, it pays to plan. I knew I needed food, water, and warmth-not necessarily in that order. I found my clothes wadded up and left in the dirt near the signal truck in a soggy lump. I started with the underwear, holding the briefs and the T-shirt up as close as I could get them to the fire, letting them dry. When they were a little less damp, I slipped them on, hoping my body heat would continue the drying process. I stood up, tested my aching ankles, and managed to hobble my way toward the light. Beneath a rock shelf, I stared out into a grey, overcast morning. Everything sloped downhill, into snow-covered trees and then into impenetrable fog. No sign of Madame Hoh or the man with the iron sickle, only frost-crusted footprints leading away from the cave and downhill. Moving quickly, I managed to gather twigs and dried branches near the rocks surrounding the cave entrance. By the time I returned to the little fire, I was shaking so badly, I could barely control my hands. Still, I fed the fire until it blazed brighter than ever. I warmed myself.

I spent the next hours tending the fire and drying my clothes. But I had another chore here in this rock-hewn mausoleum. One I’d been putting off.

I had to inspect the interior of the signal truck of the company known as the Lost Echo.

I wandered down Daeam Mountain for two days. I was completely lost and only followed the contours of the mountain as they led me downhill. On the second night, I collapsed. I had replaced my first walking stick with a better one that gave me more support. Even though my feet hurt like hell, they were functioning now, and I had high hopes the pain was a sign they were healing. Still, I was hungry and thirsty and desperately cold, and the inner linings of my sinuses bothered me, still raw from the Little Demon.

I needed shelter. Before I’d left the cave, I’d commandeered an old canvas tent flap and, using a rock, sawed a hole in the middle. I slipped it over my head and used it as a poncho. Even though it was heavy, it helped keep me warm and as dry as possible in this wintry world I was trudging through. I’d also found a box of flares. It figured the men of the Lost Echo wouldn’t have used them because they were busy hiding from the Chinese, not trying to draw attention to themselves. There were also some old dried up candles. Most of them crumbled beneath my touch but a few were still serviceable.

I found a fir tree with a branch broken from the weight of the snow. Using my walking stick, I pelted it until most of the snow was gone. Then I gathered some more twigs and made a thick bedding beneath the overhanging branch. I crawled in. Shoveling together a pile of earth, I stuck one of the candles atop it. Then, striking one of the three flares I’d brought with me, I lit the wick. Now I had a shelter. One that wasn’t too cozy but at least it would keep me from freezing to death. I dropped a handful of snow into a canteen cup I’d salvaged from the signal truck and held it over the flare. When the snow melted, I drank it all down and then melted some more. Finally, I lay on my side, curled around the flickering candle.

I wondered what had become of Ernie and Captain Prevault and if they’d started a search for me, but before these thoughts could formulate coherently, I passed out.

I felt the footsteps before I heard them. They were soft paddings in the night. And then there was something warm above me, hovering. I lay completely still, afraid to move or even to breathe. Something snuffled and then I felt the warmth lowering, the warmth of a very large body. Something touched the lobe of my ear, something like an exquisitely thin wire. And then another. The breath was hot now. Meaty, with a vague wheezing underlying it. A cat. I was sure of it. An enormous cat. So close its whiskers were poking into the side of my head. I refused to move. I would not move. The feline breathed into my ear, deciding, I believed, whether I should live or die. It took a long time in its deliberations, an eternity. And then, like a living dream, it stepped away, ever so quietly, like a fleeting thought. For another long time, I continued to lie perfectly still and then, for some unfathomable reason, I was asleep again.

When I awoke, my candle was out. I peered through hanging branches. A few feet away from my little shelter, a man squatted on his haunches, studying me. He wore a tunic and loose pantaloons tied at the ankles; both appeared to be made of buckskin. His headgear was a woven straw conical hat with a low brim that shadowed his eyes. Large calloused hands hung loosely over his knees.

“Don’t move,” he said.

I studied him. He wasn’t armed as far as I could see and his facial expression was benign, not threatening.

“Why not?” I asked.

“You’ll crush them.”

“Crush what?”

“The family.” He pointed with a thick-knuckled finger. “The grandfather is right next to you, the younger generation between your feet.”

Carefully, I lifted my head. Then I realized what he meant. Directly in front of me, poking up from between loose branches, was a sprightly looking plant, about six inches high, with sturdy green stems and bright green leaves. At its base was a thick gnarled root of a reddish hue. Between my feet were more green shoots, smaller, younger than the venerable fellow right in front of my eyes.

“Insam,” I said. Ginseng. Literally, the people plant.

The man nodded.

Carefully, being sure not to damage any of the plants, I sat up and shoved the hanging branch out of the way. I studied the man’s rough visage. He was slightly amused with me, obviously at home squatting in the middle of this vast forest.

“You’re Huk Sanyang-gun,” I said, playing a hunch. The black hunter.

He didn’t nod but stared right at me. “That’s what they call me.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Now it is.” With his open palm, he motioned at the plants surrounding me. There were more of them, of all sizes and apparent ages, like a clan of little green people. “They like you,” he said.

“Like me?”

“Yes. That’s why they’ve allowed you to find them.”

“But I didn’t find them. I was exhausted last night and there was this broken branch here so I used it for shelter.”

“Yes,” he said. “You must be worthy.”

“Worthy of what?”

“Of finding the royal ginseng.”

“I’m worthy?” I said, pointing to the center of my chest.

Amused, Hunter Huk nodded.

“How about you? You found them, too.”

“I found you,” he corrected me. “You’ve been tromping through these woods for almost two days. I figured you weren’t going to get out alive if I didn’t help you.”

“Couldn’t you have come earlier?”

He shrugged. “I was busy.”

“With what?”

His eyes widened. “You’re not the only one who has things to do.” I leaned forward and rubbed my swollen ankles.

“You need to get to a hospital,” he said.

“Won’t this insam cure all my ailments?”

“Don’t make fun,” he said, frowning.

I figured he was right about that. I was depending on him to save my life.

“There was a tiger here last night.”

He smiled. “There are no tigers in these mountains. Once they roamed freely and protected the ginseng but now they are gone.”

“I saw one,” I said.

“You saw it?”

“Well, I didn’t open my eyes.”

He smiled again, more broadly this time.

“Can you get me out of here?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, “but you’ll have to walk.”

“I can do that,” I said, grabbing my walking stick.

When I stood up, he said to me, “Which one do you want?”

“What do you mean?”

“The insam. They presented themselves to you. It would be an insult now not to harvest one of them.”

“Only one?”

“Only one. Greed would also be an insult.”

I studied the green plants poking up between the sparse grass and the damp leaves. “Honestly, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“You don’t have to use it yourself. Give it to someone you respect.”

I thought of someone. “Which plant would be best?” I asked.

“The oldest is the most valuable,” Hunter Huk said, pointing to the grandfather plant, “but the entire clan will grieve if you take him. Better if you take a young man, one who is strong and covets adventure.”

I studied a few of the medium sized plants. One of them stood off by itself, slightly elevated on a clump of turf. “That one,” I said, pointing.

“Good choice,” Hunter Huk said. He pulled a short curved dagger from beneath a leather belt that cinched his buckskin tunic to his narrow waist. He turned it and offered the wooden handle to me.

“Will you show me how?”

He knelt near the plant. Leaning gingerly on my staff, I joined him. “Carve through the earth around the edge and dig deep so as not to damage the roots. If you pull him up whole he will survive longer and once the outer husk dries, the flesh of the root will still be full of vital juices.”

I did as I was told, widening the churning of earth at his direction. Finally, I pulled the plant up whole, root and all. It appeared to have legs and arms and even a stumpy kind of face. Hunter Huk handed me a small leather pouch, and I placed the plant inside and knotted it with a drawstring. I tried to hand it to him but he waved it away.

“Keep it,” he said. “It is yours now.”

I stuffed the plant in the large upper pocket of my fatigue blouse.

“Come on,” Hunter Huk said, motioning for me to follow.

At the edge of the clearing, he turned and bowed three times to the small family of plants. I did the same.

Hunter Huk motioned toward the valley below. About a mile away sat the intersection I recognized as I-kori.

“How can I thank you?” I said.

“By giving the insam to someone who is worthy.”

“I will.”

I looked back at the road. There was a military vehicle there, a jeep. Maybe it was Ernie. When I turned back to say goodbye, there was no one there. I glanced at the opening in the woods. Were the branches quivering? They seemed to be, but I couldn’t be sure.

I hurried downhill.

As I approached the jeep I realized it was painted a darker green than the olive drab color favored by the US Army. This was the deep pine-colored hue of the ROK Army. I hobbled forward as fast as I could. The hourglass figure that emerged from the passenger seat was unmistakable. Major Rhee Mi-sook waved at me and smiled. For a moment, I wanted to turn and run, but I realized I wouldn’t get far. Instead, I tossed the walking stick aside and strode as confidently as I was able straight toward her.

My beard was a growth of a few days now, and my fatigues were muddy and damp. I must’ve stunk to high heaven. I saw all this on Major Rhee’s face. Her cute nose twisted and she pointed me toward a three-quarter ton truck that was racing toward us from up the road.

“Ride in there,” she said. “I’ll interrogate you later.”

“I have to get in touch with Eighth Army,” I told her. “Now.”

“What is it?” she asked.

But when I stepped closer, her nose twisted more severely this time, and she held the back of her dainty hand up to her face as if to ward off germs.

“Never mind,” she said. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Do you have a radio?”

“No. But there’s a phone not far from here.”

The three-quarter ton truck arrived, and she motioned for me to get in. As she returned to her jeep, I climbed in back with three ROK Army soldiers. They scooted as far away from me as they were able. I wasn’t happy about being under the control of Major Rhee, but somehow I had to communicate with 8th Army and let them know about the threat to the veterans who were gathering at Walker Hill. About a half mile up the road, we screeched to an abrupt halt. The ROK soldiers started cursing and grabbed their rifles. I braced myself against the wooden stanchions of the truck and hauled myself upright. A roadblock. Korean National Police armed to the teeth. The cops all wore combat boots and khaki uniforms, and they were all armed with either M-16 rifles or big.45s strapped to their hips. One of the vehicles even had an M-50 machine gun mounted on it-an M-50 machine gun that was trained right on us.

Some of the soldiers raised their weapons as if preparing to return fire. As fast as I could, I clambered out of the truck and crouched low.

I heard shouting. Major Rhee’s voice. Another voice shouted back at her, one I recognized. Mr. Kill. They were speaking so quickly and both of them were so enraged that I couldn’t understand everything they were saying, but I picked up enough. Somehow, the KNPs knew I was there. They wanted to take custody of me and return me to 8th Army. Major Rhee was having none of it. I was in her custody now and that’s how it would stay. Neither side was backing down.

I wasn’t too crazy about being argued over as if I were chattel, and I was also worried that whoever I ended up belonging to would lock me up. I wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but it was clear that the ROK Army and the Korean National Police were each determined to control the situation in their own way.

My memories of what Major Rhee had done to me when she’d been posing as a Senior Captain in North Korea made up my mind. I didn’t want that to happen again. With as much dignity as I could muster, I marched forward, stiff-legged, lurched past Major Rhee’s jeep and started to walk toward Mr. Kill.

She grabbed me in a neck lock. I was too weak and off-balance to resist. She pulled me back and somehow a pistol appeared in her hand. The bolts of a dozen KNP M-16 rifles were released and clanged forward. Behind me a smaller number of ROK Army rifles did the same.

“He’s mine,” Major Rhee screamed.

Her face barely peeked over my left shoulder. The pistol grazed against the right side of my chin.

I willed my mind to concentrate, to try to parse what they were screaming at each other. Mr. Kill was shouting that he knew her game. She wanted the man with the iron sickle to keep murdering Americans because she wanted the US to leave the Korean peninsula. Major Rhee shouted back that it would be good riddance.

Without thinking, I threw myself backward. She wasn’t expecting it, and she wasn’t strong enough to keep from crumbling beneath my weight. The KNPs surged forward. The next thing I knew Mr. Kill had ripped the pistol from Major Rhee’s hand, and she was screeching at him a long list of invectives. Many of the words in Korean were completely new to me. Three of the KNPs jerked me to my feet and dragged me toward one of their waiting vehicles. I half expected a round to burst into my back, but in the end everyone held their fire.

As we drove of, Major Rhee was still screaming.

“I need a radio,” I shouted at Mr. Kill as we raced away. “Or a telephone.”

“We have one.”

He sat in the passenger seat of the small sedan, his assistant, Officer Oh, driving. He flicked a switch and stretched a cord toward me in the back seat.

“Touch the button when you want to talk,” he said. “Who do you want me to contact?”

The CID office in Seoul didn’t have a radio but the MP station did.

“The Eighth Army MP station,” I said.

He punched in some numbers. A staticky speaker crackled to life.

A familiar voice said, “Eighth Army Headquarters, Military Police.”

“Grimes,” I said, “they took you off guard duty.”

“Sueno?” He sounded as if he was amazed. “Where the hell are you?”

“With Mr. Kill, heading toward Seoul. You have to relay a message to Riley at the CID.”

“Shoot.”

“Be sure to let Agent Bascom and Captain Prevault know I’m safe, and I’m on my way back to Seoul. If they were searching for me they can stop.”

“Got it.”

“And also let them know that they have to get someone out to Walker Hill.”

“Walker Hill?”

“Right. The resort area on the eastern end of Seoul. There’s a threat to the Korean War veterans who are out there.”

“What kind of a threat?”

“The man with the iron sickle. He’s after one …” I tried to continue talking, but we were behind a line of hills now and the connection had been broken. I handed the microphone back to Mr. Kill.

“Walker Hill?” he asked.

“The man with the iron sickle and his accomplice, Madame Hoh, they’re on their way now.”

“What do they want?” he asked.

“Revenge.”

When we emerged from the hills, Mr. Kill managed to make contact with KNP headquarters in Seoul. He gave crisp instructions, and I had no doubt that within minutes the resort hotel at Walker Hill would be swarming with cops. Whoever this American veteran from the 4038th Signal Battalion was, he’d be safe.

I leaned back in the seat, completely exhausted.

Officer Oh handed me a small can of guava juice. I thanked her and tore off the pop top and drank the contents down in two gulps. Then I closed my eyes. The siren was on now and we were making excellent time back toward Seoul. We’d be there in an hour, I thought as I fell asleep.

The Sheraton Walker Hill Hotel was completely surrounded by armed Korean National Police. A line of black Hyundai sedans was parked behind the sentries, and I figured a few ROK government VIPs were there, probably making speeches to the American veterans. We pulled up in front and a liveried doorman opened my door. He jerked back when he saw me. I looked like what I felt like, a mountain man who hadn’t washed in a week. As we clambered out of the car, I noticed a white van with a red cross emblazoned on it. An elderly American was having his blood pressure checked. They really were treating these guys like royalty.

Mr. Kill escorted me through the glass door. My muddy boots slapped on polished tile. We walked up to the long check-in counter, and a number of gorgeously made-up young women bowed to us. When Mr. Kill flashed his credentials, a black-suited duty manager appeared in front of him, almost as if by magic. Mr. Kill deferred to me and I started to talk.

“Amongst the American guests,” I said, “there is a veteran whose unit during the Korean War was the Forty Thirty-eighth Signal Battalion. We must locate him immediately.” Without being told, one of the young women in a business suit produced a check-in register and flipped it open on the counter. The list of American names was traced with polished nails. In the right column were their unit designations.

“Walton,” the manager said. “Mr. Covert P. Walton. He’s in room sixteen fifty-two.”

Within seconds, Mr. Kill, Officer Oh and I were in the elevator punching the 16th floor button. When we arrived, Officer Oh took the lead, pulling her small pistol out of her waistband as she did so. The door to Room 1652 was open. We barged in. Two maids, both with white bandanas tied around their heads, looked up from snapping sheets. Their mouths fell open. Officer Oh asked where the American guest was.

Terrified, the two women said they didn’t know. They’d reached this room about ten minutes ago, and the sign asking for room service was dangling from the outside handle.

Officer Oh ordered them to drop everything and to step outside. They did. She checked the room, in the bathroom and even under the bed, but Mr. Covert P. Walton was nowhere to be found.

We went back downstairs to the lobby. Mr. Kill called some KNP officers over and gave them instructions to search the foyer and the dining room and the shopping boutiques and to check the identification of every foreigner they encountered. As soon as they found Mr. Covert P. Walton, they were to escort him back to the main lobby. When they bowed and scurried off, Mr. Kill and Officer Oh and I looked at one another.

“You should sit down,” Officer Oh said.

But something was bothering me, I wasn’t sure what. When we had reached the main lobby, I’d glanced outside through the big glass doors and seen the reassuring presence of the doormen and the KNPs standing guard. For some reason, something seemed missing. And then I realized what it was.

“Come on,” I said.

Mr. Kill and Officer Oh followed me outside. Her sedan was still parked there, in a place of privilege only allowed for the vehicle of the Senior Homicide Inspector of the Korean National Police. Mr. Kill stared at me curiously, as did Officer Oh. Everything looked normal; everything except one thing.

“The Red Cross van,” I said. “There was a woman inside, wearing a nurse’s uniform. I only saw her back. I imagine there was a driver up front and I spotted an elderly American in back.”

“They’re gone,” Officer Oh said in English.

Mr. Kill cursed. He ran toward his sedan, flung open the passenger door, and leaned in and switched on the radio. Immediately, he was ordering an all-points bulletin for the missing Red Cross van. Officer Oh questioned the doormen and the KNP officers standing guard. They all confirmed the same thing. As soon as we’d stepped inside, the back door of the van had closed, and they’d driven off.

“Did the American get out?”

Not everyone had been watching but the few who did said he hadn’t. They’d assumed he needed medical attention and he’d been taken away for that reason.

We checked with the hotel manager and asked who had authorized the Red Cross van. He didn’t know. He assumed it had been part of the government effort to provide first class service to the visiting Americans. He made a few phone calls, and everyone he talked to denied having authorized the van. Within minutes the posse of KNP officers returned from their search of the hotel. They’d talked to many foreigners, most of them veterans there for the conference and they’d checked every passport, but none of them was Mr. Covert P. Walton.