Brothers Under a Same Sky

PART TWO

July 23, 1950

Dear Nam Kun, my brother,

I writing to you at last. Sorry about this. I have been very busy with this war going on. I promise this will be a long letter. As long as my CO says not to move out. Just want to say I am ok. I hope everything is fine with you and your job. I hope Mama and you and our sisters are doing good. I pray for Mama and all of you everyday. In fact every hour I think about you folks. Thinking about you folks always comforts me. Right now is raining. Its pouring! The monsoon season. Koreans call this changma. I am writing this under my poncho for cover. There is a river of rain running right next to me. I was in my foxhole but it started collecting all kinds of water and now is a pool. So I go out and went under a tree and right next the rain was forming a stream of water. Rushing water. I never seen so much rainwater in my life. Worse than the worse rain in Wahiawa I ever seen. That’s why this paper is wet and holes in the paper, the paper is wet. But I am managing. I manage alright. But I pray everything is good in home. How is Mama? I’m sorry I didn’t write earlier. Because my unit is under attack. We are under retreat. The North Koreans are everywhere. Right now my unit is waiting for a truck to take us more south. Right now we are near Taejun, about 20 miles south, and we will have to go back to Pusan. That is what I heard. This war is madness. Moving forward, then backward, and sometimes sideways. Then sometimes in circles. In fact most times seems like we going in circles. Sometimes they tell us we are winning the war, but sometimes we get word that we are getting beaten bad. Real bad. I think the latter. The top brass is saying we are winning. But in the ranks the word is we getting losing and badly. The morale among us is pretty bad. Everybody want to go home. Including me. I miss you folks all alot. But don’t worry about me. I am fine. I actually pretty good. I have God to help me. To comfort me. And that’s all I need. I pray to Him all the time, everytime I wake up from sleep or nap, mostly naps as we cannot have long sleeps in the field. I pray to him all the time, asking him to look after Mama and all of you. I know my prayers will be answer. Jesus is my Savior, and He will lead me home and my comrades here home safely. He will provide for the Koreans. They are really in bad shape. The refugees are everywhere. Always begging for food. Always dressed in the dirtiest clothes. Well, myself I’m pretty dirty. But God will lead them to plentiful waters and fields. He will bring to them much love and sustenance. There is only one way. I love my Lord and Father and his Son, Jesus Christ. I do hope They will end this terrible war. This is a terrible war.

Hyungnim, I must tell you a story. Please do not tell this to Mama. It will not make her feel good. Promise me you will not tell this to Mama or the girls. Promise me. A few days ago when we entered a farming village east of Taejun, about 30 miles from the town. My unit came upon a family planting rice plants. They were in a clearing in the middle of their small village. When we entered they were all startled to see us. One of them, a halmuni, came to my commanding officer and started talking in Korean. Lt. Castely couldn’t understand what she was saying and pushed her away, and when she kept coming to him, pleading to him saying, “Aigoo! Pop an kada!” Before I could translate for him Lt. Castely hit her with the butt of his rifle and the halmuni fell to ground. I think she died right there because I heard a cracking sound like her skull was cracked and her eyes turn to white. I was sick, but I couldn’t do anything, I couldn’t talk, afterall Lt. Castely is my commanding officer. But all she was asking was not to take the rice. They was hungry. Then the rest of the family surrounded the halmuni and started getting all work up. Lt. Castely looked at me and said, “Han, what is this old whore’s family saying to us?” All they were saying was, “Why did he killed her? Why?” But before I could translate this, one of the men, it looked like it was the halmuni’s son, came charging at Lt. Castely with a hoe and before he could hit Lt. Castely one of the enlisted shot him. But all of sudden some guys in the unit opened fire on the villagers. And in a few seconds of continuous firing, all the family was lying dead, the ground soaked in their blood. I was in shock. They were all unarm. I heard Patterson, this boy from Iowa behind me say “Oh! My God!” Then I heard somebody else say the Lord’s prayer. But hyungnim I didn’t do anything. I couldn’t say anything.

Hyungnim, I was so shocked. I still am in very much shock. But what can I do, hyungnim, what can I do? I pray to God that He will help me understand what I seen. I pray to Him asking him for help. When I pray to Him, I am comfort but only for a short while because the war is all around us, everyday, all around us. I hear shells in the distance even right now. Hyungnim, why are human beings so cruel to fellow human beings? Why? There was another time when we were outside Pusan when I found one of the guys in my unit raping a young girl. The girl was about June’s age and even looked like her. I had to say something! I yelled at him to stop violating a young girl and he turned to me and pointed his M-16 at me and told me to shut up or he would blow me away. I was an American soldier like him and he told me that.

Hyungnim, this is not what I expect in this war when I signed up and went to boot camp. Remember I did not want to be a soldier. I wanted to get CO status but you told me to do my duty for my country. So I am doing my duty. But all what I seen is terrible, hyungnim. I am in the army thinking I am helping the Koreans. But I am not helping the Koreans. I am making them worse off. It makes me think I am the enemy than I am the helper. It makes me think, hyungnim.

I hope I never make you feel bad. I don’t want this to happen. And promise, again you not going tell Mama about what I just said. It will break her heart. To hear the kinds of things I am going through in Korea, the country of her native birth.

Ok, I guess this is enough for you read. Sorry this so long. But I promise you I write a long letter. But don’t worry about me. I am ok. I am fine. And sorry for the holes in his letter the paper is wet and my pencil is sticking in, it is still raining very hard. And do not tell Mama and the girls about the bad stuff I just write. Tell them good stuff. I will write each of our sister a letter. Tell them that. But I hope you understand what I saying here in this letter. And I hope you agree God is the only salvation for us. One day Korea will be grateful God has looked over this country and help it.

Hyungnim, but I also have sort of good news. I met a wonderful girl, a Korean girl in Pusan. She is a Christain. You know, I was surpised they had Christains in Korea. But they do. I met her when I was doing one reconnaissance. We came by one orphanage and she was there taking care the orphan kids. Her name is Margaret. She said that her name was given to her by a American missionary. Her real name, Korean name is Hyun Hae Lim but I call her Margaret because that is what she wants to be call. She is really pretty. And she is Christain. Hyungnim, if I see her again maybe I will ask her to marry me. Can you believe that? Your kid brother getting married? I will let you know. You will be the first to know.

I will pray for you and Mama and the girls, hyungnim. I will pray for all of you for good health and good luck.

Your kid brother,

Nam Ki

The mud was the color of red clay, like the dirt of Wahiawā. Han bent down, with one arm cradling his wet M1 against his midsection under the poncho, and touched the mud, rubbing a bit between his fingers. It had a gritty feel and the color was of the earth from the fields where he grew up, that red dirt of Wahiawā that stained his khaki school pants and left an ochre patina on his bare feet that would not come off even after a long hot bath. How strange, he thought, that thousands of miles away he would come across the same kind of dirt. It even smelled the same, that smell of fermented mint. But no, he reasoned, it was not strange at all. After all there were many similarities between Korea and Hawai‘i. The fact that he was in the land of his ancestry made the connection between Korea and Hawai‘i that so much special.

He looked up into the gray skies, the fat underbellies of clouds that were bursting with rain. His eyes became blurred with rain. The sound of the rain falling had been thunderous, but now there was a kind of meditative, monotonous humdrumming that was pacifying him. All those images of bodies scattered along dirt roads in postures of awkward sleep. The smell of the dead and dying. The death of his foxhole buddy,

So, say, Han, where are you from? Hawai‘i? Really? Where those nice hula girls live? My. So you live in a grass shack, do you? You know, one of those houses made of grass and stuff? No? No. I live with my mother and my sisters in the back of a laundry building. Oh, I guess, that can be a grass shack, can’t it? Hey, I’m jus’ kidding you. Hey, so you got a girl back home, maybe one of those hula girls? No? Hey, I got one. And she’s a beauty. Here, I’ll show you her picture. We took it right before I left for boot camp, in a Woolworth’s in town. And this one is her and me at our senior prom. Pretty, ain’t she? Yes, she’s pretty. Thanks for showing me her picture. Oh, you’re welcome. Yeah, she’s awfully pretty. When I get back, I’m gonna marry her. Yes, she and I are gonna get married. I already proposed to her and Kathleen—that’s her name—she said “yes.” She’s the only child and her folks are pretty well off. Her father has a nice spread, farming land. Yeah, he plants corn and wheat, has a bunch of hogs. Yeah, when I get back I’m gonna marry into a rich family. Already her father talked to me about taking over the business. Yeah, you can bet on it. I’m pretty set when I get back—Whoa! What was that?

pieces of bone and globs of body tissue sprayed all over his gear—they all seemed to be washing away with the rain, the dull rush of the rain giving him a rhythm of forgetfulness. He wanted to pray. He needed to pray. He wanted to forget everything. He wanted to forget where he was.

Before he could kneel on the wet ground, he felt a nudge on his shoulder.

“Han, snap out of it. Gotta keep moving.”

Jenkins, the squad leader. When Han first got into the squad, Jenkins, an enlisted just like him, from Boston, had approached him and asked him if he was Korean. He had nodded and said, “Yes.” But he also added that he was born and raised in Hawai‘i. “You’re one of those pineapples!” Jenkins had said, smiling. Then he asked Han if he wanted to pray. Surprised, Han agreed. But in less than a week, when their squad leader was killed by an NK sniper, Jenkins found himself promoted as the new assistant squad leader, and later, when Sergeant Rowe, the new squad leader, was wounded and sent to the back lines to the field hospital and from there to a hospital in Japan, Jenkins, being the most senior of the squad by three months, suddenly found himself promoted to corporal and squad leader. And, for some reason, he stopped praying.

Han caught up with Thoreau who was in charge of the Browning automatic. And now his right foot began to itch. He should have powdered his feet the last stop they had. He just had to grin and bear with it. He thought about home, about Mama and the girls. About Nam Kun. What were they doing right now? Could you believe it that in Hawai‘i there was probably a lot of warm sunshine but that now he was trudging in this gloomy rain? But why was he complaining? He had God, and that was everything. If it wasn’t for God, he would be—

There was a crack of gunfire. The squad dropped to the muddy ground as the echo of the shot disappeared into the distance. Someone in the back of the unit returned fire into the general area of the sniper for thirty seconds. After the last round, Han heard someone behind mutter, “Who in their goddamn fucking mind is shooting in this fucking wet hell?”

“Han! Pirelli! Check out what’s going on!”

Pirelli crossed his chest, then scrambled to a hunched position. Han followed him, crouching low.

Han passed Thoreau trying to keep the Browning dry, but the automatic was too big to cover with his poncho.

“Came from there,” Thoreau said, pointing in the direction of a large oak tree.

“What was it?” Han asked.

“Don’t know. Sounded like a pistol. There was only one shot.”

Han followed Pirelli into the bush. Pirelli gestured for Han to spread to the left of him. They went towards the tree. Pirelli relaxed when he saw a lifeless body at the base of the trunk. It was a young boy, no more than ten years old. Several rounds had blown the top of his head off and shattered his left arm. The lower part of the thin arm was on the ground about five yards away. A Colt .45 was in the mud about ten feet away. The body was quivering.

“A kid . . . shit,” Pirelli sighed. He wiped his face of the rain with a hand. “Fucking kid. How did he get the gun?” He prodded the body with the tip of his rifle.

Han crouched down, trying to imagine what his face would be like, blood all over the kid’s face and rain getting into Han’s eyes. He regarded the handgun, thin smoke rising from the barrel. The rain washed the blood from one of the boy’s closed eyes. A Korean eye.

“A government issue,” Han said. “U.S. Army officer issue.”

“All clear,” Pirelli shouted to the rest of the squad.

Han stared at the child’s chest. Could have been one of the kids at home. By the look of the clothes, the kid was a farmer’s son. Why did he shoot at them?

“It’s all right,” Pirelli shouted. “We got the gook. A kid gook.”

Jenkins found them. When the body jerked, Pirelli shot several rounds into the child’s chest.

“Why—why did you do that?” Han said.

“Fuck you. He was moving. A good commie is a dead commie.”

“But . . . he’s just a child. He’s no commie.”

“Shit. He shot at us, right? This is no YMCA.”

Jenkins prodded the body, too, then shouted for the squad to move on.

“We got to bury the body,” Han said.

“We don’t have the time,” Jenkins said. “Just dump the body in the bush somewhere. Let’s move on. That’s an order.”

“But we can’t just leave the child like this,” Han argued.

“I said, let’s move out. That’s an order. If the kid didn’t shoot at us, he wouldn’t be dead.”

“It’s only a gook kid,” Pirelli said.

Han’s eyes dropped to a pool of muddy water that was being mixed with blood of the child. A terror rose in him that was stabbing his heart, rushing blood to his head that was nearly bursting from his temples.

“What of it, Han?” Pirelli said. “You a gook, too, huh?”

“Cut it out, Pirelli!” Jenkins said. “Han, let’s go!”

The others had already moved out of the bush and back to the road. Han stared into the hairy face of Pirelli, and Pirelli stared back insolently.

“So what are you going to do, gook lover?”

“Pirelli! Get out! Get back on the road!” Jenkins shouted. “And you, Han! You the same, too! That’s an order!”

Pirelli gave Han a daring stare, then with a swagger went out of the bush.

“Let’s go, Han,” Jenkins said. “Before Jackass Squadron reaches us.”

“I can’t go,” Han said. “I need to bury . . . the child. He needs to be given a Christian burial.”

“We don’t have time,” Jenkins said, the tone of his voice softening just slightly.

“I’m not going until I bury and pray for him.”

“All right. You’re disobeying my order. Go ahead then. You do what you have to do. But you got ten minutes to do this and get your ass back in formation. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Swearing, Jenkins hurried out of the bush and ordered the unit to move on.

Han took off his pack and unfolded his shovel and started digging into the clayish, sandy mud and the ground was soft and in a few minutes he had dug a shallow grave that was collecting rain, already half full with water. He dragged the body over to the hole and placed it in, then covered it with mud and leaves, then made a makeshift cross with twigs and a vine and laid it on top of the mound that barely covered the body. He tossed the handgun as deep as he could into the bush. Then he kneeled and prayed. Near the end of his dark prayer he saw a faceless child walking towards him, arms splayed stiffly in front, but he continued to pray, and he could not shake the frightening vision, squeezing his eyes together even more tightly, and then, trying to disengage from that vision, he said, “Amen,” picked up his pack and rifle, and rushed back to his squad.

And the vision of the faceless child trying to touch him would haunt his waking thoughts and sleepless dreams for the next three days.

The squad had made camp near a temporary compound set up by friendly retreating troops. The rain had abated for a while, though the ground was a swamp. Jeeps and trucks trundled through the compound, sending waves of mud and water everywhere. Han found a relatively dry spot on a raised root of a tree that was on a small hill behind a large tent for the COs. He closed his eyes, the noise of all of the activity around him lulling him to sleep, when he heard a rough, Pidgin-English inflected voice call him.

“Eh . . . you one Hawai‘i boy, eh?”

Han turned to his right. The soldier, who looked Hawaiian, sat next to him, on another raised root, resting his rifle against the trunk of the tree, and opened his canteen for a drink of water.

“Hah?”

“Wheah you from? Somebody tol’ me you from the islands. You one local boy, right?”

“Yeah. From Wahiawā.”

“I can tell,” the soldier said, leaning over to look at his surname inked to his fatigues. “Dah way you look. Han. What you, Pākē? You cannot be German.” The soldier laughed.

“Korean.”

“Nah? You yobo?”

“Yeah.”

“Crazy, eh, you yobo. And you come fight in yo’ country.”

“I’m American.”

“Yeah, I know that, but you know what I mean, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“Eh, my name is Robert,” the soldier said, offering his hand. “Robert Kekoa Kamakalele. My friends call me Buzzy. My family call me Koa. What yo’ name?’

“Nam Ki Han.” Han shook Buzzy’s hand.

“Sound Korean to me. So, what you folks call you?”

“Nammi.”

“Nammi. How long you been in?”

“About two months. Three weeks here.”

“Me . . . been here almost four weeks. Over one year altogether, you count my time in Japan. And I hate every minute of it. I miss my fish and poi.” Buzzy laughed. “Eh, yobo, now you can get all the kimchee you like eat, eh?”

“Yeah, not bad.”

“Eh, I like my kimchee. And the kalbi. Eh, my girlfriend back home is Korean. How you like that? How’s that fo’ one coincidence? You get one girlfriend?”

Han was slow to nod his head.

“Eh, what, you get one or no get one or thinking about one?” Buzzy laughed.

“I guess . . . more . . . thinking about one.”

“Back home?”

He shook his head.

“Wheah? Here?”

Han nodded his head.

“All right, you. You like the hot Korean wahines, eh?”

Han glared at him for a moment, enough time to make Buzzy uncomfortable with his comment.

“Eh, sorry, bruddah. I mean, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“She’s one nice girl. She’s a Christian.”

“She’s one good girl, then. What . . . you going marry her?”

Han shrugged his shoulders.

“You know, you get one good girl like that, you cannot go wrong. But you gotta go get ’em. No chance ’em, or somebody else going grab her. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

He noticed a cross dangling from Buzzy’s neck. “You Christian?”

“What?” He took the crucifix in his hand and looked at it and rubbed it caringly. “Yeah, I guess so. Not one practicing one. But I guess I believe in the Man above. Actually, my cousin gave me this before I left fo’ boot camp. She tol’ me going protect me. I do anything that going protect me. So, what, you one Christian? I thought you Orientals Buddhist or something like that?”

“No. I Christian. Was baptized in my church in Wahiawā.”

Buzzy uncapped his canteen again and took another drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before recapping it. “Yeah, I was baptized, too. My family is Episcopal. I got baptized at St. Andrew’s Cathedral, downtown. So what school you went?”

“Leilehua. Where you went?”

“‘Iolani.”

“Where’s that?”

“Downtown. Up Nu‘uanu Valley by Judd Street. You know downtown?”

“Not really. My older brother live Palama.”

“What, you played sports?”

“Nah. Too small.”

“You not that small. I played football, basketball, and baseball. We took championship, my senior year, baseball.”

“You should play fo’ college. You big enough.”

“I was going. But I enlisted. Thought maybe I follow my brother. He got out already. Three months ago. Actually I like golf better. When I was one small kid, I used to caddie at Waiālae Country Club. After pau caddie, we used to play couple rounds. Eh, I got pretty good. Dis haole guy was interested taking me up mainland and joining one tour or something like that. He was going support me and everything. Even send me college, he tell me. But my mother nevah like me go. Tol’ me, no can trust one haole. Plus, she tol’ me I had to finish high school, then I can do what I like. So what kind sports you like?”

“I like baseball.”

“What team you follow?”

“I like the Red Sox.”

“The Red Sox? How come the Red Sox? What, you been to Boston?”

“No. I just like them.”

“Me, my team is the Giants. New York Giants. Always liked them. I get one cousin live New York. Maybe das why I like the Giants. He always been one Giants fan. I remember I was in high school and he came visit home and he gave me one Giants cap. I still got ’em in my mother’s house.” Buzzy’s eyes focused on the tent below them. About a dozen men were taking the tent down. “What they doing now? They jus’ wen put up the tent? Shit, no tell me dey going break camp already? Shit. No can even take one good moe?”

“Looks like they breaking camp. Maybe we gotta move out.”

“Looks like. I wonder what dis is about?”

Han saw members of his squad being hustled together by Jenkins. “Looks like we moving out,” he said.

“Shit. No can even rest for one minute.”

Jenkins saw Han under the tree and shouted at him to come down.

“I guess we going,” Han said. “Was good meeting you, Buzzy.”

“Eh, I hope everything goes okay with you.”

“You, too.”

“I hope we both survive.” Buzzy laughed. “I hope we both go back home. Maybe we see each other in the islands after the war. I invite you my lū’au when I marry that Korean girl.”

“Yeah. So what’s your company name?” Han asked.

“Item Company. Whas yours?”

“King.”

“I think my squadron leader trying find me, too. Eh, I see you latahs, bruddah.”

They shook hands and left the tree, going in different directions.

When Han was halfway down the knoll, Buzzy shouted at him. “Eh, yobo, remember I like eat yo’ mama’s cooking when we get back home. Remember my name. Kamakalele. Look me up in Kalihi. My family house is halfway up the valley.”

Han smiled, then laughed. “Eh, all right. And I like eat at yo’ house, too.”

Buzzy roared with laughter, nodded his head. “My Mom makes dah best laulau and beef stew. All right. I see you home. And no forget invite me yo’ house.”

“Yeah. I see you.”

Han came down to the muddy road where the King Company was in a panic.

“Han, get your ass over here!” Jenkins ordered.

“What is happening?”

“The commies overran Able Company and wedged in George in the next valley over. We got orders to move out fast. Let’s go.”

Trucks of soldiers were passing by. The CO tent was down and getting packed on a truck.

“Men, we got to foot it,” Jenkins said. “So let’s start hauling ass.”

“Fuck, I hate this,” Pirelli said. “Getting our ass kicked all the time. Why don’t we just stay and fight it out?”

“You can,” Thoreau said. “But I’m saving my ass.”

“Fuck you, you fucking cowards,” Pirelli said.

“Yeah, and fuck you, too,” Thoreau threw back.

“Yeah, you and the gooks can all go to hell.”

“Pirelli, shut the fuck up,” Jenkins ordered. “Come on, men. Let’s stay together. Let’s go. Let’s move out.”

The thought of putting a slug in Pirelli’s head came and went in Han’s mind. And the thought disgusted him. Why did he think that? What is happening to me?

Silently Han prayed as he followed Thoreau, Pirelli to the right of him, all of them sloshing through the muddy road. Lord, please look over me. Please guide me through these times. I am embarrassed that I have thought of these evil thoughts, of bad things against my fellow man. Please, Lord, please guide me through these times. Please give me the strength to overcome my wrong tendencies, the evil directions that are presented to me that are so easy to—

“Han! Stop daydreaming!” Jenkins yelled from behind. “Get your ass together or get your ass flattened!”

He looked to his side where a truck dragging a field artillery almost clipped him on the arm. He jumped to his right, into Pirelli, who shoved him back.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Pirelli yelled.

“Sorry.”

“Fuck you. Sorry. Stick to your own kind, boy. Don’t touch me.”

“Pirelli, cut the crap,” Jenkins said. “Han, get your shit together, man. We’re in war. Stop your daydreaming, or you’ll be one of them, or worse.” He pointed with the tip of his rifle to the covered truck carrying the wounded.

“Yes, sir,” he said. Silently he did an “Amen,” then slowed his walk so he would be behind Pirelli.

They trudged through a blown-out village, then down a gully where a stream had turned into a small rapids with the rains. He remembered crossing the same stream a week or two ago, perhaps a half of a mile further down, when the waters were clear and gentle and cold. It was a bright and sunny morning, and they had come across a group of white-clad women doing their laundry, striking the wet garments with wooden paddles to loosen the filth from the clothes, then rinsing them in the stream, then repaddling. Pirelli had just joined the squad, and he started to talk badly about the women, noting lewdly how they squatted while laundering and snickering about how it would be fun to get them from behind in that position. At first Han didn’t know what he was talking about, but when he saw Jones and Jenkins snickering with looks of desire, he understood what Pirelli was talking about. Pirelli called him, asking what was the Korean word for “sex,” a word that Han didn’t know.

“Hey, what do you know?” Pirelli said, “You’re one of those religious fools, one of those Mama boys.” He laughed.

Jones had chuckled. Then Jones told Pirelli the word for the female genitals, and Pirelli practiced the word a few times.

“What kind of fucking word is that?” he said.

Then he shouted at the women, who were upstream but in hearing distance, and grabbed his crotch and yelled the word at them.

“You want?’ he said. “You want some, Mama-san? This American one is better than your Korean husband! You want, Mama-san?”

Han saw the disgust in the women’s faces, who were avoiding looking at them. One of them, a woman perhaps in her thirties, ordered her young daughter to look away. Han could not forget the look the young girl stole at them from behind her mother’s body, a look of innocence, of wonder, of confusion. From this distance, the little girl’s face looked like his youngest sister’s back home.

He turned to Pirelli. “You shouldn’t say those things to them. They’re not doing anything to you.”

And Pirelli fired back, “Shut up, you Chink. I can say what I want. Any of those cunts would have me spin in them for a quarter.”

“They are people with feelings,” Han said. “You shouldn’t say those kinds of things.”

“Fuck you, you Mama-san boy.”

“Shut up and cross the stream,” Sergeant Rowe said.

Pirelli grabbed his crotch again and shouted the word, then started across the stream. Han looked at the women and saw the girl looking at them again, and then her mother slapping her on the face, forcing her to look away, and Han turned his head hard, away from them, and regarded the slippery rocks of the stream, and he prayed for the women, prayed for their safety and for the safety of their families, and he prayed for his squad’s safety and prayed that the Lord would look over and guide Pirelli even though he was so full of evil and hate, and evil and hate, and evil and hate. . . .

July 30, 1950

Dear Hyungnim,

We now resting right outside a village that is not there anymore. All burned down, like the rest of the countryside right now. A lot of holes in the ground from the mortar shelling, I think mostly from our side. But I think it was the commies burned the village down. I seen a lot of atrocities and they all by the commies. Not to say that we never did anything bad. We have some bad elements on our side. Some really bad elements. But this is war, as my squad leader always tells me. We got to just go with what we have. We just got to do what we have to do. And through all of this I am so glad for my belief in our Lord, Jesus Christ and his Heavenly Father. If wasn’t for Them, I think I would be gone crazy already. This war is something else. I pray all the time and this keeps me understand why I am doing what I am doing.

I hope everything is going good for Mama and you and the girls. Tell them I am doing fine. I am doing fine. I am seeing a lot of things I wish I never had to see, but I rather see them then Mama see them, or the girls or you, hyungnim for see them. This is a bad war, hyungnim, I have to admit to this. In some ways, I wish I never have to come. But like you tell me when I visit you in Palama, it is my duty, to my God and Country. And I accept this. We here already and we got to do the best job we can do. Otherwise this whole place will be overrun by Godless commies. If this ever happen this whole world going be one sorry state, with no more God and Jesus Christ.

Oh, I got to go. I just heard my squad leader Jenkins calling us we got to move out already. Wasn’t that long. But we got to move out because the North Korean commies are coming down. They really brutal to the civilians. OK, so see you later. And please tell Mama I doing fine. And the girls too. I love them all. You too. I pray for you all everyday.

Nam Ki

Around 1422 the North Koreans attacked, running over several small hills. George Company was forced to retreat into a narrow valley. There was no other place to go. George Company was trapped. Fierce fighting ensued, with American losses mounting. The company was pushed against a cliff. Here they dug in, hoping for a miracle. The North Koreans were persistent in their unflinching assault. Air power was radioed in, and for a short while the friendly forces were successful in stopping the advance of the North Korean front. Then the North Korean army sent another attack, this time cutting off George Company from the rest of the U.S. forces. By 2000 hours, the main brunt of the attacks ceased, and though sporadic shelling and gunfire continued through the night, nightfall became a savior for George Company, letting the men recuperate temporarily until the break of dawn.

They had climbed a narrow trail up a steep side of the valley to where the trail widened but was covered with a large boulder and other rubble, loosened from above by the heavy bombardment. Thoreau was killed below while trying to retreat with the Browning. The only other survivors of the attack that Han knew were Jenkins and Pirelli, but he had lost track of Jenkins. Perhaps he was dead, too.

Pirelli was leaning against the boulder, his eyes wide and surprisingly, Han thought, scared. Han wanted to get away from him, but it would be stupid, he told himself, to move from a relatively safe place. And they were still on the same side. So he stayed next to Pirelli, crouching, with his back too against the granite boulder, the coldness of the rock seeping into his spine as he listened to the bombardments and their echoes off the valley’s walls. Perhaps the others in the squad were scattered on the hillside nearby, but he did not know. Most of them, he was sure, were dead. He decided to pray. Halfway through the prayer he was interrupted by Pirelli.

“Han . . . hey, you there?”

“Yes? What is it?”

“You know, I don’t think we’re going to make it out of here. This is it. This is my last night. Yours.”

“You have to have faith.”

“Don’t give me that Jesus talk. I had enough of that bullcrap.”

“God will help those who help himself.”

“I said shut the crap up! You’re preaching to the Pope. I had enough of that religious talk. I had that ever since I was born. Don’t talk to me about this.”

“But if you pray, you will have faith.”

“That’s bullshit, man. Bullshit. God listens to people who have money, not the poor guy who has nothing. He’s not looking down at me and feeling sorry for me. If he was, I wouldn’t be here in the first place. I’m here in this God-forsaken place because I don’t have a father and a mama, and anyway if I did they would be too poor to make a political contribution.”

“Why are you full of hate?”

“What? What you fucking talking about, Chink?”

“I’m not Chinese. I’m Korean.”

“Then mind your own business, gook.”

“That’s not my name.”

“Fuck you.” He pointed his rifle to Han’s head, his eyes bloodshot and his hands shaking. “I’ll blow your head off in a second, you gook fuck! Fuck off! I should do it. You’re not worth the shit you shit. You’re a fucking gook. That’s what you are. A fucking gook. You’re no American. Damn, of all people to be stuck with at the end of my life. Don’t bother me with your Jesus talk.”

Pirelli lowered his rifle.

Han crawled to the other side of the boulder, away from Pirelli’s wild eyes, his heart beating hard and steady. Now he was exposed to any incoming fire, but there was no other choice for him. He quieted himself, closing his eyes and praying, but he saw the faceless child searching for him. Gripping his rifle, he opened his eyes, each distant explosion making his grasp tighter and tighter until his hands began to tingle from a lack of blood. But the faceless child was still there in front of him. And he pointed his rifle at it and shouted for it to leave. It kept reaching out to him.

“What the crap are you yelling about?” Pirelli shouted.

Han bit his tongue. He motioned with the tip of his rifle for the child to leave. The child stopped, lowering his arms to his sides. Then he turned and went away, disappearing down the trail. Han closed his eyes tightly, squeezing out the sounds of destruction that were becoming louder and louder. An explosion above him sent a rain of dirt and pebbles over him. A few seconds later, through the thick cloud of dust, he heard Pirelli screaming.

dear father in heaven hallowed be thy name thy kingdom come thy will is done on earth as it is in heaven give us this day our daily bread and forgive us for our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespass against us give us this day our daily bread and deliver us from evil for thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever amen amen amen amen amen

“Help me!”

It was more of a gasp than a scream.

Han scrambled up, fell down, got up again and dusted off the dirt that was choking him, then scrambled to Pirelli. He had been hit. Or rather a large rock had fallen on him, pinning the lower half of his body.

“Get me out of here, you shithead!” Pirelli was spitting blood. “You bastard! Get this rock off of me? Get me out of here! Call the medic! Call someone! Just get me out of this, you bastard!”

The bewildering fear in Pirelli’s eyes shocked Han.

“What are you doing standing there? Help me! Get the medic!”

“There is no medic. The medic was killed his afternoon.”

“That’s a lie! Get Jenkins! Get him now! Gook—you fuckin’ gook!” He coughed up globs of blood.

Han raised his rifle and sighted Pirelli’s temple.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He squeezed the trigger, then dropped the rifle. He stumbled backwards, fell to the ground, closed his eyes. There was another explosion. He repeated the Lord’s Prayer until he was shaken to awareness by members of another company some seven miles away. Then darkness.

*****

When he wakes he notices the soft quiet that embraces him. At first he does not know where he is—am I in Nākoko Gulch?—his eyes probing within his mind to wake up. But it isn’t a nightmare, it is rather nice here, but still he knows he must wake up. Then he looks at himself, in his dirtied, wet fatigues and then the realization of where he is and what he is bites him. He sits up and gropes for his rifle, his hands moving here and there, shooing pebbles and dust, then seeing the rifle standing at a forty-five degree angle, lodged in a leafless shrub, branches dead and brittle. He pulls out the rifle and wipes off the mud on the butt end, unlocks the bolt and finds the cartridge intact, then sets the bolt. He holds the rifle close to his chest, in the ready for an attack, but it is dead quiet here, not a sound, not a breeze blowing, not a leaf running with wind. To the right of him, but a weakly tossed stone away, the side of a hill has collapsed over the dirt road. Then he remembers the sound of artillery. “Friendly” fire. Why did their own forces fire on them? Didn’t Sylvester radio in telling them that they were here? He gets up and climbs over the pile of dirt and rocks and shattered trunks of ancient pine, and scrambles down to the dirt road. Where is everyone? Have they all left, leaving him for dead? Am I . . . dead?

He stops, leaning against a boulder, his heart searching for any sensation that would tell him that he is alive. He is frightened. This is the most scared he has ever been. Is he dead? He punches himself in the chest. Yes, he feels the blow. And now he feels his thirst. And now, in the distance, he hears a thunderous echo. There’s the war, he tells himself. There it is. I have not left it. But why has it left me here in this wilderness of rock and dirt? Where are my buddies? Where is Sylvester? Where is Jenkins? Where is Jones? Where is Pirel—?

He drops his rifle and the rifle rattles off to the side of the road.

Pirelli.

Pirelli’s eyes are pleading for help, he yells at Han—Gook! Han’s eyes are widening. The rifle points at Pirelli’s head— Gook! What are you doing! Help me, you fucking moron! What are you doing? Then—Whachu doing? Whachu doing? Whachu doing?—the reports, three times, that blow off the top of his head.

His legs weakening, his knees buckling, blood rushing from his mind. He falters and falls against a boulder. Then darkness. When he gets back his vision, he falls to the ground, belly down, and wedges his head in the nook between boulder and dirt. Crying to shake the pain. He gets up, kneels, then prays, he prays for God to listen to him, to forgive him, pleading, saying that he did not know what he was doing. Lord, this war has made me see strange, forbidding things! Oh Lord! Please talk to me! Please see that I am still what I am, a loyal servant to you and your son, Jesus Christ! God, please see me for what I am! I do not know what happened. This war is evil! This war is bad! This war is the work of the devil himself! The devil is trying to make us all his servants instead of yours! God? Are you listening to me? God—please talk to me! God—Father—where are you?

In the distance, the thunder of the heavy mortar disrupts him from his prayer. He looks up. It is darkening. Night will be falling soon. Stands up. Takes his rifle. Starts down the dirt road. Perhaps he has been left back by accident. Perhaps he can find his outfit. Perhaps. . . .

Perhaps God can forgive me.

He goes down the road for a mile or so where it opens to a field of brilliant blue flowers. It is shocking to see so many beautiful flowers, in all of their splendor and color, right in the middle of a battlefield. For a moment, it brings him a strange joy and more strangely it brings him a memory of his mother. But more so, it brings him the sensation that his mother is here with him, right now. O-ma! He turns around, but all he sees is the dirt road that he has just come on, brutalized by the artillery, and now this field that seems untouched by human concern. A dream? He plods into the field, holding his rifle slung on one shoulder while bending low, here, then there, touching the flowers with his free hand. But he cannot feel them, these flowers. He cannot smell them. It is as if they are not there. But he sees them. He can see them very well. Is the devil playing a trick on him?

The devil!

He levels his rifle and empties the clip into the field, mowing down flowers and stems. And then there is quiet again. He drops to his knees and cries— what is happening to me?—then gets up, wipes his eyes and continues his way through the flowers, crushes the ones that have fallen. He stops, loads another clip, then continues on. The field ends and what remains of the road begins again, and now the land is barren of vegetation and covered with broken rocks and shattered trees, and the road climbs along the side of a hill for about two or three hundred yards to near the top where a small grove of trees has toppled over and the trees are sprawled over the road, the top portion of the hill shorn off by artillery. He climbs his way over and between the fallen trees, and now the road is clear of debris and rises along the side of another, larger hill, and he follows the steep road, and at the top he stops and looks down into a narrow plain. A village is there, the rice paddies cratered by mortar. And there is a silence again with the exception of a couple of clucking chickens roaming just below him, pecking among the dirt and pebbles. But they are the only things he sees that represent the living. A dull blue smoke floats over the village and the fields, and now he notices the sun setting on a distant hill. He watches the red sun settle on the treetops, that final image burning in his eyes like the afterglow of sparklers on a New Year’s. He will go down to the village and find something to eat, something to drink. There must be something to eat and drink. Perhaps he will sleep in the village—will he turn himself in?—rest for the night, before continuing on to find his lost outfit. Perhaps he will sleep well tonight, something he has not done since he has come to the land of his ancestors.

He finds a narrow trail that he takes down the side of a hill to the village. Sections of the trail are destroyed, fallen to the side of the hill, as a result of the bombardment. But the hill on this side is not steep and he is able to cross over the broken trail by hugging its side. Halfway down, the unmistakable smell of rotting flesh stings his nostrils. Half-hidden in a dried bush is a pair of legs. He covers his nose and mouth with one hand and with the other prods the bush with his rifle, uncovering an old woman whose eyes seemed to be gouged out. Maggots infest the hollow sockets. There is an agitated clucking of a chicken. Uncovering more of the bush, he finds a young child next to the old woman. The chicken runs off in a frightened burst of squawking. The child is perhaps seven or eight, and she has long braided hair that seems strangely unruffled and a large part of the right side of her body has been taken off by firepower, one of her eyes pecked on by the chicken, the other open wide.

He releases the dead branches that have covered the bodies, the branches springing back over them. He will bury them, later. But first he will check out the village. He will come back and bury them. They are owed Christian burials, at the very least.

He tramps down the trail, stepping over rocks the size of melons and papayas and pebbles the size of the strawberry guavas he’d pick with friends on their hikes up Wahiawā Heights, and rocks crushed to sand and powder, scattered all over, hillsides that once may have been covered with green vegetation now covered with gray clay. He slips several times, trying to negotiate a way through the rubble, and then the ground gives way, the trail breaking loose and sending him sliding down about twenty feet to the bottom where a destroyed rice paddy lies, the shoots wilted or browned, the paddy looking like a worn earthen mat. He gets up, dusts off his rifle, then himself, then looks over the fields, the dried paddies, his eyes alert but tired. There is no one around, not a sign of life on two feet or four. But there . . . there is that thunder again from far away, the thunder from large artillery, probably 30mm shells. They are from friendly fire, he can tell, by the fiery ricochet and that diminishing echo that follows each shot.

He follows a path between two dead paddies towards a farmhouse, part of its roof sunken, then becomes alarmed as he realizes that he is exposing himself in a wide-open area. He quickens his pace but stops about thirty feet to the shack, switching the safety off. Raising his rifle to chest height and aiming at the open entrance, he shouts, “Yobo-seiyo!” Waits. No response. Again shouts, his body tightening at the movement of dead leaves on the ground, a breeze coming up from the valley that he has just come out of. The breeze shifts, bringing him a stale whiff of the dead, an odor that he cannot become accustomed to. This, however, tells him it is safe to enter the farm shack. It is the smell of several days, perhaps a week or two. Still pointing with his rifle, he approaches the house, steps up the stone steps to the landing and hides to the side of the open doorway, the wooden mud-cased door hanging slant from one rope hinge. He holds his rifle against his chest, his back against the wall, listening for movement—he can smell the dried straw of the thatched roof above him—then he slips across the entrance, his rifle aimed into the shack at eye-level, ready. The inside is still. He takes a step into the shadowy interior of the shack, then another step, swinging left, then right. Nothing. No stirring. Nothing. Only the smell. His rifle now lowered, the smell is stronger, more rancid and sure. The shack has only one room, and he can see where a farmer and his family may have slept, the straw mats and thick cotton blankets piled neatly in one corner, boxes and bundled straw piled a couple of feet off the back wall. He slowly makes his way to the boxes and stiffens his stance when he sees a pair of legs under the straw. There is a dark shadow of dried blood absorbed by the wooden floor under the legs, enough blood to suggest that the body is dead. He uncovers the body. It seems to be a woman, face down, her hair long, unbraided, black and tangled. She has been shot in the back, and when he pulls her out of the pile, he sees the back of her head is caved in, the forehead exploded, her face beyond recognition.

Why was she killed? And the halmeoni and child on the side of the hill? Were they spies? Did they harbor communists? Did the communists do this? But only the South Korean and American troops had been in this area. Did they do it? The South Koreans? The Americans?

Something is clutched in the dead woman’s hands that are pressed against her chest. He tries to open her hands, her fingers, but rigor mortis makes it difficult. He finally breaks two of the dead woman’s fingers to get to the shiny gold-colored object.

A cross.

It is cold, the evening. The setting of sun. It is cold.

Cold burrows its wretched head deep in his chest.

Hastily he throws the cross at the dead woman but misses badly, the cross bouncing off his boot, ricocheting off to the right and falling off a mud wall. He kicks the cross towards the woman, lodging itself under her body. Then he backs out of the house.

The sun has set.

At the back of the shack he finds more corpses, what he thinks are several other members of the farmer’s family. The farmer. Two male children, perhaps five and ten years of age. Another elderly woman. All blindfolded and shot in the head.

A willow tree, a child’s laughter away, next to a tranquil dark pond.

He takes off his backpack at the pond, washes his face, then sits against the trunk of the willow, closing his eyes against this madness of time, of memory, and feels his body being drained into the ground. A ragged urgency rises to his stomach, knotting his stomach. A chill rises to grip his heart. He takes the collapsible shovel from his pack, assembles it, then, taking his rifle and shovel to the hillside, digs a shallow grave for both halmeoni and granddaughter, covers them with the loose dirt and rubble around him, buries them with a prayer and sets a stone to mark their final resting place, then returns to behind the shack where he spends the rest of the night digging a mass grave for the others, while a full moon rises and swells and sinks into the distant trees. After he has buried the rest of the family, having inserted the cross back into the hand of the woman, he washes himself at the pond and rests his eyes, the cold of the night ghostly and restless, slipping through his skin and chilling the core of his bones.

And when the sun rises a few hours later, his eyes unblinking and his blood drained of emotion, the smell of the dead holding still and low to the ground, he washes his face, fills his canteen at the pond, drops a chlorine pill into the canteen before he slips his pack back on. Then he strikes a match and lights the straw roof of the shack.

Walking towards the rising sun. He stops a short distance away and turns to watch the blaze. Fire rendering freely and engaging in conversation with the morning breeze that has picked up from the north. The sky reddening like the dirt of Wahiawā.

And robust like a raging celebration.

A silent, still landscape surrounded him as he made his way down the dirt road that led from the farm, but soon after, after passing another pond muddied from the runoffs from the artillery-beheaded hills, fresh bombardments and their echoes punctured the silence. Now, it seemed, the trees that lined the path were cowering, as if aware of their tenuous, temporal existence, as if they recognized their time was to come. He held his rifle close to his chest and stopped before a turn in the road, making sure that the safety was off, then moved on, his footfall now lighter and deliberate. The artillery fire became louder and he could feel the land under him shake and moan, the air cracking with fissures of dust. But his heart wasn’t beating out of control anymore, like how it used to when he had first came to the front, when he could not feel, could not think, could only regret that maybe he would never see Mother and Nam Kun and the rest of the family again. His heart was a different heart now. A cool, perhaps serene demeanor now crept into his body that controlled his pulse, and he felt his legs moving with a steady vigor. He went off the road into a copse where he sensed the quivering of the trees less, and he became touched by the gloom and silent wailing of the trees, as if each tree had a spirit captured in its trunk, sealed in by an aged and stubborn bark, and trembling with a sparse hope that it would be released from the fear of certain death. And no, it didn’t bother him that the trees were acting individually with this desperation, with this degree of cowardice or betrayal of community.

The sun had set for a while, the edges of the sky a deep orange-red, and the shelling was sporadic now, as if it were fighting off sleep. He decided to rest a short while in his search for the source of the friendly fire, leaning his rifle on a tall maple tree and sitting at its base, and in the dim light he could see that though this tree was untouched by firepower, the other trees around it were damaged by the acid in the wind and air brought on by the war. But this tree was untouched, and he stood under it looking up through its branches, observing the glimmers of darkening, now purplish sky in the thick canopy of branches and leaves. Then he closed his eyes, and when he reopened them—moments, minutes, perhaps an hour or two later—darkness had fallen. Now he could not see beyond a few feet. It was that dark. Perhaps this would be a safe place to rest, to sleep, for a short while, then to continue in his search for his lost outfit. So he closed his eyes again and drifted off to sleep, and he dreamed of the grandmother and granddaughter he had just buried, and the granddaughter was picking flowers and the grandmother was pulling out doragi to harvest the roots. But a thunder bellowed from deep in the forest, and fear came to their eyes, the granddaughter crying and running to the grandmother and holding on to the grandmother’s white clothing, and a terror came to the grandmother’s eyes, and she got up, holding what roots she had in the front fold of her skirt, moist dirt still clinging to the roots, some of the roots falling back to soil, and she hobbled down a dirt path, holding onto her granddaughter, towards a small hut below, and the forest was quivering and shaking, and there was a large explosion in the forest and the tops of the trees blew away, and the tree parts fell everywhere. A loud hard laughter came from the forest and the grandmother stopped and looked back and saw, rising above the destroyed trees a gigantic tiger, standing on its hind legs, one forepaw holding a tree trunk for balance, the other swiping the heavens with claws splayed. Its eyes were flashes of emerald fire, and the tiger’s laughter and roar shook the other tree trunks, the dark stripes of its fur moving like slithering serpents.

His head struck the ground, waking him brutally to the cold air that was smacking against the feverish eyes of the tiger. He grabbed his rifle—the action bringing him back seconds later to the immediate—and got up and straightened his helmet, searched the morose forest with widened eyes, then, when he sensed only the nakedness of the forest’s silence, took a drink from his canteen, the water hard and burning with chlorine. He adjusted his pack and plodded out of the copse, found his path again on the dirt road.

After about an hour he came upon a bridge. The moon had risen, and the light was enough for him to see the stream that was running under the bridge, and he listened to the sound of the water, the innocent gurgling bringing him a childhood memory of running up the mountain trail with his Okinawan friend, Roy, back home in Wahiawā. They had gone there right after school one day, and after a long climb and swim at the water tank, they had fallen asleep on a bed of pine needles. When he got up, it was dark and Roy had gone. He was angry at Roy for leaving him and at the same time scared. There were wild boars and dogs up there that would tear him apart in a minute and eat him, Nam Kun had told him. There was a full moon, and he remembered thinking that something was following him and ready to grab him from behind. And he remembered how the fear had chilled his body even while taking the fire of Mama’s scolding.

He looked behind. No. He was the only one on the road. Why was he so afraid all of the sudden? Why did he remember this? He had to get back to his outfit. He had to get back to the friendly side.

As he crossed the bridge, there was a low howling in the distance, and a second or two later an explosion threw him into the muddy bank of the stream where he was discovered, four hours later, unconscious and near death.