Several boots pinned him to the metal bed of the truck, preventing him from swaying with the suspension. What he’d thought were logs were actually the boots of at least a dozen soldiers sitting on either side of him, facing in toward him. They joked among themselves, knowing he was listening.
“We will be rewarded for catching this American dog.”
“Ha, not dog. He is a pig.”
“Swine!”
“He is a spy. He will be shot.”
“Not before Eun-Yong has had this son of a bitch castrated.”
“Ha!” another soldier replied, but it wasn't so much a laugh as a forced response to meet peer expectations.
The soldiers were cruel, kicking him without warning as he lay there trying not to move, but that was the role of soldiers from all nations, he understood. They had to dehumanize their enemy. It was the only way to justify their acts. Just yesterday, he was an officer, a title that carried a sense of pride and prestige and now he was a prisoner. One brutally subjugated by an enemy. He already felt his sense of self-esteem slipping away, driven from him by the petty violence being arbitrarily inflicted on him as he lay there blinded by a sack pulled over his head.
“Stupid fool,” another voice said, and a boot crushed his little finger against the steel bed of the truck. Lee cried out in pain.
“Be quiet, idiot!” another voice cried out, kicking him the small of his back with a steel-toed boot.
The truck slowed. Lee could hear muffled voices speaking from the cab. The driver was talking to a sentry. He could hear other vehicles idling nearby. A helicopter flew low overhead. The smell of diesel hung in the air. He was at a checkpoint, possibly at the entrance to a military compound.
Lee tried not to panic, but he couldn’t help himself. The sack over his head made it hard to breathe. His arms were pinned behind him in a stress position. His leg hurt. Without being aware of it, he began to hyperventilate.
The butt of a rifle hit him on the head, knocking his forehead against the metal and he screamed in agony.
“Shut up, you suckling pig!”
Again the butt of the rifle struck him, only the wooden stock glanced off his shoulder and onto the floor of the truck, sparing him from the full force of the blow.
Lee whimpered. Blood pooled in his mouth.
The truck continued on, turning to one side. Gravel crunched beneath the wheels, a stark contrast to the squelch of mud and rock he’d heard before. He’d entered a military base, he was sure of it.
The truck came to a halt. Seconds later, he heard a steel tailgate being lowered and felt himself being lifted out of the truck. Several soldiers had him by his upper arms. They dragged him over and dropped him like a sack of coal. He expected to fall to the ground, but landed on the back of the truck. He could feel the edge of the truck fall away beneath one leg. A couple of soldiers on the ground grabbed him, pulling him over the edge. They held him by his shoulders, allowing his feet to swing down on to the gravel.
“Come, you lazy heifer.”
The references to farm animals surprised him. He’d expected more vulgarity, but North Korea was an enclave, an isolated country not subject to the Hollywood tropes of verbal abuse. For them, these references must have been insulting comparisons.
His captors pushed him on in front of them as his head hung low.
Lee tried to walk, but could only shuffle. He was still reeling from the blow to his head, and the bullet wound to his right thigh ached. Without being able to look at the wound, he figured the bullet had only grazed the muscle. When he'd fallen in the village, it must have been largely from shock. There was some kind of bandage wrapped around his leg, stopping the bleeding, but had the injury been bad, he wouldn't have been able to walk at all. Small mercies, he thought to himself as he continued on.
The world seemed to spin around him in the darkness. He could see glimpses of mud and rocks out of the bottom of the bag over his head.
Someone grabbed the sack from behind, grabbing a handful of hair along with it and jerked his head back, forcing him on at a faster pace. His feet struggled to respond. That was the point when Lee realized they’d taken his boots. He was still wearing his damp socks, but his boots had been removed, perhaps as a trophy, or perhaps just out of practical necessity by another soldier wanting better boots.
He was pushed into a hut. His feet caught on the step in the doorway, and he struggled not to fall to the floor as he was dragged inside.
A chair scraped across a wooden floor.
Someone untied his hands before pushing him down in the chair and strapping his forearms to the arms of the chair.
Lee tried to be objective and observe the fine nuances around him. This was an endurance trick the South Korean military had taught him during his evade and escape training. As a prisoner, he was powerless over all aspects of his confinement save one, his mind. He had to keep his mind sharp, to look to learn from the subtle nuances of his captivity. Details were important. Details spoke louder than words, and what's more, they were a distraction, a way of removing himself from the emotionally crippling reality that surrounded him. His captors would want to break him, and the truth was, they would, given time. His only hope was to hold out as long as possible and slowly capitulate, to appear more broken than he was. This was a game of deception on both parts, only the North Koreans were working with a stacked deck.
Details. He'd keep his sanity only by focusing on details, and so he drove his mind to be clear and objective.
Previously, Lee's hands had been bound with rope no thicker than his little finger. The rope had been too thick to break, but it wasn’t the sort of hand spun rope he’d expect to find in a fishing village, it had to be something the soldiers had carried with them. Now, though, thick leather straps bound his forearms and lower legs to the chair. His hands were free, which seemed strange. Although he was relieved to get some feeling back into his wrists, he was alarmed by the change. He understood that everything he was enduring had a purpose, nothing was accidental or haphazard. More often than not, that purpose would be brutal and cruel. Lee doubted this wooden chair held any relief.
The sack was pulled from his head.
There was no one in front of him or to either side. Whoever it was that pulled the sack from his head remained out of sight behind him. Light peered under the door to his right. From the angle, it couldn't have been more than seven in the morning. Given the angle of the sunlight, he was facing roughly due north. This is good, he thought. Keep focusing on the minutia, work those details.
The wall in front of him was bare of all adornment other than a framed picture of the Supreme Leader Most Glorious. The wooden frame was thin, providing a flimsy border to an image no larger than a sheet of printer paper. The Glorious Leader had been photoshopped. His features were airbrushed. White teeth radiated from a hollow smile, that of a jackal gloating. His eyes looked upward and to the side, as though he were illuminated by the rising sun. Not a hair on his head was out of place. Each strand had been meticulously pulled into place in a hairstyle that looked like something from the 1950s.
Lee turned to see who was behind him. A rifle butt clipped him on the shoulder, directing his gaze back at the Leader without a word being spoken.
Lee waited. He wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed, but it felt like he sat there for hours. The day stretched on. He was hungry, tired, exhausted. If his head began to droop, a rifle butt prodded him awake again.
He noticed that a crude bandage had been wrapped around his leg. Blood soaked through from the bullet wound, but seeing how little blood there was convinced him his initial assessment was correct. Thankfully, it was barely a graze. A couple of inches to the right and a measly hundred and twenty two grams of copper-plated steel would have punched through the bulk of his thigh at a phenomenal speed, covering seven football fields in barely a second and turning his soft tissue into shredded meat. The bullet could have severed his femoral artery or broken his leg, cutting through the mu
scle like a hot knife through butter.
The chair had no padding and his backside felt numb.
If he moved, trying to shift his weight to gain relief, the guard behind him would strike him with his rifle.
There were dark stains on the floor, blood splatter patterns. A metal toolbox was open on a table to one side, just visible on the periphery of his vision. It could have belonged to a mechanic, but somehow he doubted that.
After an age, the door behind him opened and several soldiers walked in. He could hear the crisp sound of their boots on the wooden floor. The manner in which they strode on the hollow floor conveyed a sense of purpose, and Lee had no doubt as to why they were here: they wanted answers, answers he didn’t have. He recalled his training. Be the grey man, he reminded himself, be compliant, be submissive. Avoid eye contact. Appear broken. That won’t be hard, he thought.
A North Korean officer walked in front of him with his parade dress hat tucked tightly under one arm. His boots were polished to a brilliant shine, while his shirt and trousers had been pressed with starch. Lee doubted this was his usual dress—he seemed too formal. He was dressed this way to intimidate Lee with his authority, and Lee felt that immediately. Lee understood this man held the power of life and death over him.
“You wear no dog tags,” the officer said coldly. “You are a spy.”
“I am a civilian pilot,” Lee replied, being careful not to contradict him with the word ‘but.’ He paused before continuing, surprised by the sound of fear in his own voice. “I am Captain John Lee with the South Korean Coast Guard, a civilian organization.”
The officer eyed him with suspicion. He paced slowly across the floor, taking measured steps. Lee swallowed the lump in his throat. His hands shook.
“A government organization?” the officer asked after due deliberation, clarifying Lee’s comment about the Coast Guard.
Lee nodded. He didn’t know where to look. His eyes betrayed him, darting around the room, wanting to settle somewhere but finding no rest.
“Can you prove this?” the officer asked.
His voice was deceptively calm, almost as though he were genuinely trying to be helpful. Lee doubted his response was anything other than a facade. His head hung low, forcing his eyes to look straight ahead.
The wooden floor was rough, lacking the smooth polish he was familiar with in the West. The planks were uneven and slightly irregular in shape, leaving gaps between them. A cold draft drifted up from beneath the hut. The planks had probably been processed in some local lumber mill, perhaps a temporary camp set up to build the military base. Lee found himself trying to focus on anything other than the horror unfolding before him, but reality would not be so easily denied. Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore what was happening.
“What identification do you have?” the officer asked when Lee failed to respond. The officer bent slightly, being sure to intercept his gaze.
“Ah,” Lee replied, knowing the officer would have already seen everything the soldiers had taken from him: his survival kit, flare gun, knife. He whispered, “We don’t carry personal effects while on patrol.”
“What was that?” the officer asked. He knew damn well what Lee had said. He was tightening the noose around Lee's neck, getting him to condemn himself with his own words.
Sheepishly, Lee replied, “We leave our wallets in the ready room before going out on patrol.”
“So you have no identification?”
The officer took his time, speaking with slow deliberation, pretending to slowly piece together the puzzle.
“You are, by your own admission, from the renegade state of South Korea, having illegally entered the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea with the intent of conducting subversive activities against our sovereign nation. You are, by definition, a spy.”
Lee shook his head slowly, still looking at the knotted wooden planks that made up the floor.
The officer placed his hat on the table. The only sound in the room was that of his boots squeaking on the wood. Like the European armies of the 1800s, his ceremonial uniform was based on the concept of mounted cavalry, and Lee wondered if horses were still actively used in military operations within North Korea. He doubted that, as horses were too good a source of meat. The soft, supple sound of leather flexed in time with the officer’s steps, heightening Lee’s sense of fear.
He had to speak. He had to defend himself.
“I am a civilian pilot, captain of a search and rescue helicopter, a Sea King based out of Incheon, South Korea. Call sign Foxtrot Echo Sierra Four Zero. We were fired upon by a North Korean fighter while in international waters.”
“Do you know who I am?” the officer asked, his posture impeccable, his arms tucked behind his lower back as he marched slowly in front of Lee.
Lee avoided eye contact.
“Colonel Eun-Yong of the 54th mechanized battalion, commissioned to protect the motherland against western aggression.”
He paused, letting his words sink in before adding, “I catch spies.”
Eun-Yong turned his back to Lee, straightening the picture of the Supreme Leader Most Glorious. He touched the wooden frame with a deft motion, barely moving the picture as he asked, “What do you know about him?”
“Nothing,” Lee replied softly, his voice barely audible.
Without facing Lee, Eun-Yong snapped his fingers.
One of the guards grabbed Lee’s right hand, holding it rigid against the wooden arm of the chair, splaying his fingers wide. Another soldier opened the toolbox on the table and pulled out a pair of bolt cutters.
Lee felt his heart race.
Adrenaline surged through his veins. Fear swelled in his mind, causing him to sweat in the cold air. He looked at the soldier holding his hand with such brute force and fought to pull his fingers free. From the way the soldier positioned his arm over Lee’s, gripping Lee’s arm beneath the wing of his own arm as he grabbed at Lee’s fingers, it was clear he had done this before, and that terrified Lee. He shook in the chair, fighting against the leather restraints. The soldier’s baby face belied the savagery of the moment. The other soldier exercised the bolt cutters, working the levers back and forth and smiling as he made eye contact with Lee.
“What are you doing?” Lee cried, his voice breaking in a quiver.
“You will answer the question,” Eun-Yong replied calmly, turning back toward him, allowing the second soldier to step in front of Lee. “What do you know about him?”
Lee found his mind racing. What did he know? He couldn’t think of anything of any significance. He knew the North Koreans were paranoid, but did they really think his intention was to assassinate their leader?
The sight of the bolt cutters caused him to tremble. With his fingers spread, held rigid by the younger soldier, Lee found his mind racing.
“His name is Kim Jong-chol,” he blurted out.
“Don’t play games with me!” Eun-Yong cried in anger, waving his finger at Lee. “I will not be mocked! I will ask you one more time. What do you know about him?”
“Nothing,” Lee cried, on the verge of hyperventilating. “Nothing!”
Eun-Yong gave the slightest of nods, signaling to the soldiers. The first soldier tightened his grip, getting one hand beneath Lee’s palm and raising his pinky finger. The other soldier opened the bolt cutters.
“No,” Lee cried. “No!”
There was no further warning, no deliberation, no mercy. The soldier before him stepped in and snipped at Lee’s hand in an instant, severing his little finger in a single, brutal act.
“ARRRRGGG!” Lee screamed.
He rocked forward as the muscles throughout his body spasmed in response to the surge of pain. Lee fought in vain against the leather straps, trying with all his might to tear free from his restraints. Blood gushed from the stump on his hand, pulsing as it sprayed across the floor. The severed finger fell to the floor, rolling to one side away from him.
Lee pursed his lips, breathing in s
hort pants, his mind reeling from the physical shock of the amputation. Every nerve in his body screamed in agony. He couldn’t think.
Eun-Yong paced as the soldiers positioned the bolt cutter over Lee’s ring finger. Lee was manic, his eyes focused on the steel blades already cutting into his skin. Blood welled from around the blades of the cutter. He fought to wriggle free, but the soldier beside him held him firm. His entire arm throbbed with pain. Waves of agony pulsed through his body.
“WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT HIM?” Eun-Yong yelled.
“NOTHING!” Lee yelled in reply.
Through the haze of pain, he felt the soldier clamp down on the bolt cutters slowly this time, the leverage building till the point the bone leading to his knuckle snapped and pain again surged up his arm, tearing along his forearm, his bicep and into his shoulder.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Lee shook violently, slamming his torso back and forth, clinching and struggling in vain against the leather restraints. He arched his back, trying to wrestle free, fighting to slip free from the soldier pinning his arm. The legs of the chair scraped across the ground, lifting off the floor and slamming back again as he flexed every muscle in his body trying to wrench himself free. Another soldier came up on his left, grabbing him and anchoring him in place.
“No. No. No,” Lee cried, his mind reeling from the pain. He was in shock. His heart raced, thumping in his chest. Blood flowed copiously from the severed stumps on his hand.
Eun-Yong was in a rage. His face was red with anger. Spittle flew through the air as he screamed at Lee.
“TELL ME WHAT I WANT TO KNOW!”
Lee couldn’t speak. His head throbbed. He felt like someone had stuck a red hot poker up behind his eye. Spasms of pain shot through his arm and up his neck. He fought like a wild animal caught in a snare, thrashing and roaring in anguish. His vision narrowed. He thought he was blacking out, hoping darkness would come as a relief from the torture, but Eun-Yong was no amateur. Through the sweat and tears clouding his vision, against the flexing and trembling of his body, Lee caught the subtlest of nods from Eun-Yong to the soldiers.
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