Slicky Boys

by Martin Limon

  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.

  Something squeaked and scurried through the darkness. Without thinking, I slapped at the rolling fur and felt its plump body twist and writhe beneath my hand. A sharp pain jabbed my finger. I jerked backward. A rat. It scampered farther into the darkness.

  I couldn’t see the puncture wound but I knew I’d been bitten. I sucked blood off my fingertip. I wasn’t sure which was worse: dying of suffocation or from the bubonic plague.

  Finally, the tunnel started to widen. With great relief I found myself crawling on hands and knees. The air grew lighter, almost breathable.

  At last we reached the end of the tunnel. Ma handed me the candle and climbed up another ladder. At the top he creaked open another trapdoor, peeked out, pushed his way through, and told me to bring the candle up with me.

  I climbed out into the open space, taking greedy breaths of dusty air. The space we stood in was dark and dank but, compared to the tunnel, I felt as if I’d stepped into a springtime meadow.

  We were in another warehouse. But this one was different. It was made of finely finished cement, no windows, and the crates around us were of cardboard rather than wood.

  Ma closed t
he trapdoor and we piled a few of the boxes atop it. Each was stenciled with English lettering: Water, canned, ½ gallon, 12 each.

  The other boxes were filled with nonperishable foodstuffs and medical supplies. It finally dawned on me where we were. An air raid shelter. Somewhere deep beneath 8th Army headquarters.

  A thick coat of dust covered everything.

  Ma opened one of the crates. He told me to douse the candle and hide it in there. I hesitated. Without light, we would be blind. He took my hand and had me grasp the back of his belt. I blew the candle out and placed it where he told me to. The world was pitch black. He pulled me forward.

  I stumbled after him through the darkness, clinging to his belt like a lifeline, touching objects with my hand, occasionally bumping like a blind man into a box or a chair. After we crossed what seemed to be a short hallway, we entered another room. Here, moonlight filtered through a narrow window covered with metal bars. Light had never looked so beautiful.

  Mr. Ma shoved the heavy door forward and it scraped on the cement floor. Outside, he lifted the padlock that hung open over the doorknob and locked it into the eye of the metal hasp.

  Red lettering on the door in Korean and English said Authorized Personnel Only! Do Not Enter.

  We walked quickly through a large room that I recognized as the regular air raid shelter used during the monthly drills, and we climbed a flight of stairs and finally out into the open sky and stars.

  Ma crouched low and checked around us. We were about ten yards behind the headquarters building, less than a block from Geographic Survey.

  Scurrying like an Arctic wolf across the snow-covered lawns, Ma made his way through the moonlit complex. I followed. After a few yards, under the caged red bulb of a firelight, I spotted the sign: 8th U.S. Army Geographic Survey, Colonel J. Ramrock, Commander.

  A short flight of steps on the side of the building led down to a cellar door. Ma scurried toward it. We crouched in the darkness. He tried the door. It was padlocked from the outside. We’d have to find another way in. But he grabbed my arm and pointed to the rusty metal hasp.

  He pulled on it. The door swung open. The hasp had been sawed neatly in half, but the padlock had been left in place. From a distance, the door looked secure. At least enough to fool a half-asleep security guard.

  Ma pointed into the darkness and his somber face took on a seriousness that was unusual even for him. I immediately understood what he meant.

  Shipton was already inside.

  I reached beneath my pullover, unsnapped the leather holster, and pulled out the 38. Ma nodded in approval.

  He opened the door. We entered.

  The long hallway was like a tomb. Still, at each doorway we stopped and listened. Ma gently twisted each doorknob. Locked from the inside. Shipton had to be downstairs. Underground, where Strange had told me they kept the classified documents. I pointed toward another stairway leading down. Ma nodded and took the lead.

  Although I took each step as silently as I could, my hard-soled combat boots seemed to be making way too much noise. Ma turned, frowning.

  I knelt down and unlaced the boots, took them off, and set them against the wall. Ma shook his head. I picked them up, knotted the laces together, and draped them around my neck. He nodded.

  As we inched our way downstairs I thought about running back up, sprinting through the headquarters complex to the MP’s at Gate 7, and ordering them to call for about five jeeps full of backup. It would be a lot safer, but I knew it wouldn’t work. By the time I arrived back with help, Shipton would’ve sensed something was wrong. He’d be long gone. Besides, he probably had escape routes planned, escape routes I knew nothing about. We had to catch him now. While he was busy photographing the documents or trying to break into a safe. Now, while he was close.

  When we reached the bottom of the landing, my knees were shaking. Down the hall, at the last doorway, light filtered out. A flashlight. Someone was inside.

  Ma’s face was grim. He motioned me forward. I had to admire him: the guy was fearless.

  At each door we passed, we stopped and listened but now Ma didn’t try the doorknobs. Any whisper of sound would betray us. The glow of the light in the last room grew brighter as we inched forward.

  At the edge of the door we both froze. Ma pointed to his chest and motioned that he would go in first, veering to his left. He signaled that I should follow, moving to the right and taking aim with the pistol. My hands shook and I hoped that my lips weren’t quivering but I knew they were. Ma placed one hand on the doorknob, held out three fingers with the other, and started to count them down.

  One. Two. Three!

  We slammed through the doorway.

  Ma moved left, I moved right, both of us scanning a room lined with file cabinets, searching for anything that moved. I held the .38 in front of me but I saw only a safe, untouched, and a lighted flashlight resting atop it, its beam reflecting off a coffee cup of burnished bronze. I realized what had happened but before I could turn, Ma was moving back toward me, his hands waving frantically, and something dark burst through the door and lunged at Ma. I saw only a gleam of silver and heard Ma grunt and then he was flying, lifted through the air, his squirming body heading straight toward me.

  I swiveled and pointed the gun. But there was nothing to shoot at except Ma’s stomach. I stepped backward, but the soaring body arched toward me and slammed into my hands and my chest and I saw the gleaming blade and a hand around its hilt and the knife slashed toward my chest. I rolled but it was no good, the blade slammed into me with a thud, and I expected a searing pain but I felt nothing. I knew that was probably because I was in shock and that the pain would come later.

  Then the laces of the boots jerked at the back of my neck.

  I realized the blade hadn’t reached me, it had slashed into the boot hung around my neck.

  Still, I was on my back and Ma was on top of me and someone was on top of him. Something heavy stomped my wrist. The pain flamed up my arm like molten lead.

  The gun. The gun!

  It was gone. My hand was useless, probably busted. I rolled, trying to get away from the monster above me and the pain, until I slammed into the wall. When I looked back I could see in the steady light of the flashlight that Ma lay sprawled beside me, blood seeping out a huge gash in his back. Above loomed a man. A man holding a bloody Gurkha knife.

  Shipton.

  I scrambled for the gun, found it in the dark. But before I could turn and fire I heard his heavy footsteps pounding out the door.

  No time to think now. I tried to rise, pushing with my free hand, but pain exploded up my arm, Something was broken. I rolled. Using my knees, I managed to struggle to my feet and stumbled forward.

  At the door I paused. Listened. Nothing.

  Shipton could be just around the corner, holding his breath, knife raised to strike again. Unsteadily, I raised the pistol and charged into the hallway, slamming backward into the far wall. Turning. Aiming. Nothing. I scanned the corridor. He was gone.

  I moved forward. Could he have escaped that quickly? I remembered the corridor of doorways. We’d checked inside none of the rooms. Shipton must’ve emerged from one and now had ducked back in. I crept forward, keeping my back pressed against the wall, darting my eyes constantly to the right and left.

  At the first door I held my breath and listened. Silence. Reaching out with my injured hand, I turned the knob. Fire shot up my arm. Grimacing, I twisted. Finally, slowly, the door opened.

  I gazed into a pitch-black vacuum. Shipton could be just inside. Waiting. Quickly, I reached in, felt for the switch, snapped it skyward, and stepped back out. Nothing happened. The lights were out.

  I remembered the glowing bulb of the red fire light out front. Shipton hadn’t cut the electricity, that might’ve set off an alarm. But unscrewing the fluorescent lamps inside the building would’ve been easy enough.

  Mr. Ma might still be alive, bleeding to death back in the other room. He needed help and he n
eeded help now. It might take me hours to flush out Shipton. I decided I couldn’t let Mr. Ma die.

  I backed down the hallway, twisting and turning with each step, keeping the pistol pointed in front of me.

  I slipped back into the file room and knelt beside Ma’s body. Hot blood seeped into the denim of my blue jeans. Keeping my eyes on the doorway, I shoved the pistol in my belt, and reached for his neck. His eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling. I gave it two minutes, pinching deeply into the loose flesh of his throat, searching for an artery. No pulse. He was dead.

  When I stood, the blood on my knees dripped down my pantlegs to my socks. I remembered my boots. I unraveled them from around my shoulders, fingering the ugly gash made by Shipton’s knife. Then I heard the shouts of panicked men.

  I forgot about trying to slip on the boots and just strapped them over my shoulder. I pulled the revolver out of my belt, staggered back to my feet, and hobbled forward, out of the room and down the hallway. It seemed like a long trip. As I climbed the stairs, pain rocketed up my arm, slamming into my skull like exploding artillery shells.

  Outside, flames licked the winter sky. A fire in the Aviation Battalion offices, about thirty yards away, on the far side of the headquarters building. I pushed through the door and emerged into the cold night air. I wasn’t worried about Shipton popping out at me. He couldn’t be here. He’d started that fire. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  The flames swelled, enveloping the building. Men shouted and ran toward the conflagration. I scanned the scurrying faces in the dark. No Shipton.

  A couple of men were decked out in dress uniforms. One in red with a white sash across his chest, a British Honor Guard soldier. The other in green, ROK Army. The night guard at the 8th Army Headquarters building. They joined the frantic crowd, searching for hoses, yelling for buckets.