Martin Limon: The Iron Sickle

“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.