Martin Limon - Slicky Boys

I glanced down at the road. No pedestrians. No traffic. But it wouldn’t last long. The curfew police would be along soon.

He grabbed the other stone and, about a yard away from where he had set the first one, he twisted it skyward. Now, there was about four inches of space between the chain-link fence and the stone wall. Twisting his neck at a painful angle he forced his head beneath the fence. I thought for sure he’d be trapped that way: his head on one side of the fence, his rib cage on the other. But he kept wriggling forward, pushing up as much as he could with his hands, and slowly the razor-sharp bottom of the chain link dragged itself over his chest. Once he had wriggled in up to his waist, the rest was easy. He kicked forward, twisted his ankles until his feet popped through, and he was in.

I almost applauded. I’d never seen anything like it, even in a circus.

Mr. Ma squatted in front of the fence, checking over his shoulder for guards. He jabbed his finger forward, pointing for me to crawl through the same opening he’d just squeezed through.

He had to be insane. No way I’d ever fit. I was twice his size. But he kept pointing and he grabbed the fence with his fingers, showing me that he’d be lifting up on it.

In the distance I heard the purring motor of a jeep, heading our way. I lay down on my back along the cold stone fence, twisted my head, and started pushing with my feet. It scratched and it hurt and every inch forward was accompanied by pain. Ma squatted above, jerking with all his strength on the thick wire. I must’ve sliced half my nose off pushing my head through but finally it was in and when the fence scraped along my chest I thought for sure my shirt would be shredded. Ma kept lifting and tugging until I wriggled through to my waist and kicked forward and scraped my pelvis bones and finally my thighs and my knees and my feet.

I was in! I gazed down at the fence, now pressed firmly against the stone, and couldn’t believe I’d squeezed through the tiny opening.

Ma slapped me on the shoulder but suddenly twisted his head. Footsteps. We ran toward the tree line.

Squatting behind a row of snow-covered birch trees, we watched as a guard in heavy gloves and fur-lined parka sauntered by, an MI rifle slung carelessly over his shoulder. He was Korean. One of the contract hires who guard the compound at night.

When the guard’s footsteps faded, Mr. Ma turned and stalked off through the trees. I followed.

Many of the redbrick buildings on military compounds in Korea-and all throughout Asia-had been built by the Japanese Imperial Army prior to World War II. After Emperor Hirohito’s surrender ending the war, the U.S. Army had moved right in.

Mr. Ma and I stood amongst a grove of trees on a small hill overlooking a cluster of brick buildings surrounded by a high wall. The old Japanese stockade.

We moved down the hill.

Nowadays, the U.S. Army used the buildings for storage only, but I’d heard stories about this place. About how the Korean partisans had been imprisoned here by the Japanese, and how they’d been tortured and killed.

We entered the brick archway into the square courtyard. I glanced at the walls. The bullet holes had never been covered over. Koreans had been executed right here, right where I stood, for wanting nothing more than the freedom of their country. Possibly, Herbalist So’s father had been one of them.

A small building sat off by itself. Ma tried the door. It wasn’t locked. Inside it was dark but instead of sitting down and resting as I hoped, Ma motioned for me to help him move a large crate. We both leaned up against the splintery wooden box. It didn’t budge. I noticed the stenciling. A diesel engine. Made in Detroit.

I braced my legs against the wall and we tried again. This time the crate budged slightly. We leaned into it, straining with everything we had, and slowly it started to move. It let out a groan as it slid across the floor, and after a few feet Ma straightened.

“Deitda,” he said. Enough.

He knelt and brushed off dust. In the dim moonlight I made out a thin line on the floor. A rectangle. Almost identical to the trapdoor Ernie and I had discovered when escaping from Herbalist So’s dungeon. Using a loose board, Ma slowly pried it up. In the depths were the ruins of a ladder and cobwebs and more darkness. A tunnel. They kept popping up in this case.

Whispering, he took mercy on my dumbfounded expression and started to explain.

Before the Second World War, many Koreans had been held in this stockade, sometimes hundreds at a time, awaiting interrogation or even execution. The Japanese guards were ruthless but still there was occasionally trouble. Once, the prisoners rioted, and overcame their guards. The warden, who lived in this small building, had been slaughtered by the inmates.

The Korean insurrection was put down by Japanese force of arms but, in view of his predecessor’s bloody demise, the new warden decided to add a little life insurance. He dug an escape tunnel, the one we were looking at now.

When the American army took over in 1945, Herbalist So gave orders for the tunnel to be kept secret and had it extended until it reached beneath the new road connecting south post to north post. In all the years since, the tunnel had been used only by those slicky boys approved in advance by Herbalist So.

Apparently, Mr. Ma and I were two of those so approved.

The tunnel reeked of decayed rodents. I thought about snakes. There must be plenty down there. I asked Ma about it. He laughed. There are no poisonous snakes in Korea, he said. I wasn’t so sure that was true.

Ma told me to wait. He dropped down the ladder and fumbled in the dark amongst stones. Suddenly, a light flared upward. He smiled up at me, the flickering flame of a lighted candle making his bronzed face look like a death mask. He motioned for me to follow.

I swallowed and lowered myself onto the ladder, and pulled the trapdoor shut above me. Mr. Ma told me that first thing in the morning, laborers in So’s employ would enter the building and replace the crate we had moved back over the tunnel’s mouth.

How were we going to get back out?

He grinned again in the eerie light. That was the easy part.

We crouched through the tunnel. It was circular and lined with brick. After about twenty yards the brick gave way to unfinished cement.

The air became thicker. There wasn’t much oxygen down here and we’d use it up soon. In a barely controlled panic I started to wonder if there was another crate sitting atop the trapdoor on the other side. I whispered my question forward to Ma. It’s already been arranged, he replied.

I hoped so. If anybody fumbled an assignment we’d be in a world of shit.

The cement ended, the tunnel narrowed, the air grew stale, and something crashed into my toe. Pain shot up my leg. I stumbled forward, cursing, and fell flat on my face on the rock. I’d tripped over an outcropping of stone.

Mr. Ma called back. “Bali bali,” he said. Hurry.

I crawled forward. The tunnel was too small to stand up in now. All I could see was the flicker of Mr. Ma’s candle ahead of me. Water began to seep out of the walls of the tunnel. I cursed some more. My hands and feet and knees became slathered in mud. Sweat began to sting my eyes and seep from my armpits.

Unbelievably, the tunnel became even narrower. Soon, I had to lie flat on my belly and slither forward like an eel. I could no longer see Mr. Ma’s light and I kept wriggling forward quickly, frightened that he might leave me behind.

The mud and the water soaked the front of my sweater and my blue jeans and began to seep into my long underwear. The tunnel was so narrow now that I felt as if I were crawling into the belly of an enormous python made of granite. I was having trouble breathing.