The Iron Sickle

by Martin Limon

  “Your army will let you do that?”

  They wouldn’t but I lied. “Yes. I’m an American. Our rules are different.”

  The man with the iron sickle, apparently, understood enough of what we were saying to be skeptical. He shook his head and said, “An dei.” No good.

  “You’ve accomplished what you need to accomplish,” I said. “The story of the Lost Echo will be in every newspaper in the world before the day is out. Let her go, at least.”

  I pointed to Miss Sim. She snuggled closer to Madame Hoh. “Here,” I said. “I have something for you.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out the leather pouch. I placed it on the flat stone surface and slid it across to Madame Hoh. She picked it up, unlaced the bag, and the stem of the plant popped out. Reverently, she lifted the insam plant out of the pouch. Holding it with both hands, she showed it to the man with the iron sickle. He eyed it suspiciously. Then she turned back to me. “Where did you get this?”

  “After you left, I escaped from the cavern and wandered down the mountain. I fell asleep and when I woke up, this plant was there at my feet. At first, I didn’t know what it was but Hunter Huk helped me harvest it.”

  “You met Hunter Huk?”

  “Without him, I’d still be in the mountains.”

  “And you want her to have it?” She motioned toward Miss Sim.

  “Yes. It will help pay for the treatment she needs. Captain Prevault, an American psychiatrist, has already arranged for her to be treated by Doctor Hwang Sun-won, one of the most famous doctors in Korea.” I didn’t know if this was true but it could be. “She needs to get out of here alive,” I continued. “And so does he.” I pointed at the terrified Mr. Walton. “They are innocent.”

  Madame Hoh flicked her fingers at me, ordering me to back up. I did, crawling. She kept flicking her fingers until I was on the far side of the top of Guanghua-mun. She leaned toward the man with the iron sickle and whispered urgently. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, glaring alternately at me and then at the ginseng Miss Sim held reverently cradled in her arms.

  They conversed, arguing, until finally it appeared they’d come to a decision. Madame Hoh motioned for me to return. I did, sliding on my butt as fast as I could. She opened her mouth and started to say something when her head exploded.

  I leapt forward. Another sniper round zinged through the air, probably from one of the high rise buildings two or three city blocks away. It was a masterful shot but now Miss Sim was screaming, and Mr. Walton was bucking his body up and down like a terrified fish. The man with the iron sickle turned toward the rope ladder and started to hack at it.

  I leapt at him. But I was too slow. When I shoved off with my lame feet they didn’t propel me forward with as much strength as I expected. He twisted back and raised his sickle. The blade caught my shoulder and dug deep through flesh into the bone. I surged forward, not yet feeling the pain. He tried to pull the sickle back but it was stuck now in the cartilage of my shoulder. I landed on top of him, and we slid closer to the edge. I jammed my forearm into his throat, and he leaned away from me and suddenly I was staring down into space and the screaming crowd some three stories below. He kneed me in the groin. I scrabbled back, grabbing at the wooden handle of the sickle, both of us pulling on it, the sharp blade burrowing deeper into my flesh. Finally it popped free and blood gushed out. The two of us had our hands on the sickle, rolling away from the edge but then tumbling together toward the opposite side. I planted my left foot on the smooth surface and his weight rolled over on it. The pain that jolted up from my foot almost blinded me, but we didn’t roll off the ledge. He’d managed to wrench the sickle from me now, and he raised the gleaming blade into the air, and then a white apparition appeared at his arm. Miss Sim. She grabbed his forearm just in time to deflect his swing, and I leaned to my right and the blade clanged onto hard stone. He turned back and stared at her in astonishment.

  “No,” she said. “He’s good. He gave me this.” She was crying and clutching the insam against her chest.

  He twisted his head and another shot rang out. This one caught him flush in the neck. He stared open-mouthed at Miss Sim for a split second, and then his eyes darted to me. He appeared confused. A crimson bubble of blood bulged out of the hole in his neck, spurted violently and then dwindled to a stream. I shoved him away and now he didn’t resist. His body tumbled farther than I had intended. Still clutching the iron sickle, he tilted over the stone edge of the Gate of the Transformation of Light and, his eyes locked on mine, plunged backward into space.

  The crowd below screamed. I grabbed onto the hysterical Miss Sim and, holding her tightly, crawled toward Mr. Walton. I held one of the ropes that bound him and told him to breathe deeply.

  “You’re safe now,” I told him and repeated the same thing to Miss Sim in Korean.

  -17-

  A month later, Ernie and I were back on the black market detail. At night we prowled the ville. I was healing up nicely. The stitches had been taken out and the memory of how cold I’d been in the Taebaek Mountains, and how much pain the bottle of Little Devil hot sauce had caused me, was mercifully beginning to fade.

  Mrs. Hoh’s claim had never been published in the Chosun Ilbo. The government hadn’t allowed it. A few stories had been published by the international news services about the killing atop Guanghua-mun and the protests but they only got part of the story, not nearly the full extent of it. An officer from 8th Army JAG, accompanied by Colonel Brace, had appeared beside my hospital bed the day after the incident, informing me that the claim was classified and I was being ordered not to reveal any information about it under threat of court-martial. He slipped a statement under my nose saying I’d been duly informed and told me to sign it. I refused. Both officers left in a huff. Still, I knew better than to reveal classified information. Years in the federal penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas, was not something I ever wanted to experience.

  Captain Prevault extended her tour in Korea. She said it was to supervise Miss Ahn’s care, which she did in her spare time. I believed her but I also liked to think that I had something to do with her decision.

  Moe Dexter and his MP sycophants knew that Ernie and I had been the ones to flush out the man with the iron sickle but he was still blaming us for the deaths of Collingsworth and the GIs in the signal truck and at AFKN. He didn’t taunt us to our face though, instead he whispered behind our backs. That, I could live with. What bothered me was the change in policy for the ville patrol. The size was doubled to two MPs and two ROK MPs, and a backup jeep with the patrol supervisor, usually Moe Dexter, sat nearby at all times.

  It was a Saturday night, just after end-of-month payday, when a fight broke out at the King Club between some 8th Army Honor Guard troops and a handful of infantrymen on three-day pass from the DMZ. Moe and his band of MPs waded into the crowd, batons swinging. Two guys were hospitalized with concussions, another figured to lose an eye.

  Ernie and I arrived just as the injured GIs were being wheeled out by medics. A business girl was screaming at Moe, cursing at him for hurting her boyfriend.

  “He no do nothing,” she screeched.

  With the back of his hand, Moe slapped the girl hard. She fell backwards and crashed to the ground, her skull bouncing on tile.

  Moe started to laugh, as did his buddies.

  Maybe it was all I’d been through and maybe it was because I was fed up with Moe Dexter using his official position to exercise his sadism. Before Ernie could stop me, I ran at him.

  One of his buddies shouted. Dexter swiveled.

  I let loose with a jab. It caught him on the shoulder but Dexter stepped back in time to avoid its full force. Like the bully he was, he seemed surprised anyone would have the temerity to fight him.

  A couple of the MPs rushed toward me but Ernie pulled his .45 and waved them off. Cocktail tables were pulled back, out of our way.

  Moe bounced on his toes, grinning, moving away from me. I followed, jabbing some more but not with as much
crispness as I had at first. I was tired. I didn’t have to fake that, especially considering what I’d been through in the Taebaek Mountains. I even stood still a couple of times, covering up, and let him hit me. Ernie screamed at me to keep moving and to fight back. I didn’t. I let Moe Dexter have his way with me and I could see the gloating in his eyes. He was enjoying himself, savoring his unquestioned dominance and looking forward to the glory of the kill.

  The MPs were laughing now and slapping high fives.

  Dexter punched me again, and I staggered. He raised his right hand and hopped forward, gleeful at what was about to happen. I backed up. He winged a right at me. I backed up again but this time I planted my rear foot. Moe Dexter let loose with his right, but before it was halfway to me, I jabbed my left directly into his face and his head jerked back, and as I launched my right I saw his eyes blink open, surprise building in his face.

  The right landed flush on his forehead, and then I hooked with my left to his ribs and then a left again to the side of his head and finally a cross with my right hand that connected. By the fifth punch I was winging at air. Moe Dexter was down, lying at my feet, his black MP helmet rolling away and finally spinning to a stop next to an overturned cocktail table.

  Business girls cheered.

  Ernie leaped forward and wiped sweat from my face and spoke into my ear. “Why didn’t you tell me you could do that?”

  “You didn’t ask,” I said.

  With the graves registration unit, I rode in a two-and-a-half ton truck deep into the Taebaek Mountains. We had plenty of cold weather equipment and tents and diesel space heaters and cases of C-rations but it still took us three days to find the cave. Their faces covered in masks, the recovery GIs pulled the desiccated corpses out of the signal truck. I’d already turned the dog tags over to them.

  The men of the 4038th, the Lost Echo, had been missing in action for over twenty years. Now their relatives would know what they’d always known: they were dead. Their families would receive the remains and the dead servicemen would be buried with honors. But some things die hard, as did my memory of C. Winston Barretsford and Corporal Collingsworth and the two GIs in the signal truck and the two dead and one wounded at AFKN. And I remembered Madame Hoh and the man with the iron sickle and I remembered what they’d suffered, and I remembered what they’d been driven to do and I remembered what had caused it.

  Captain Prevault told me to try not to think about these things. Someday I’d sleep soundly again, she told me. I made her promise.

  -ACKNOWLEDGMENTS-

  This book was made possible by three brilliant and accomplished women: Bronwen Hruska, publisher; Juliet Grames, editor; and Jill Marsal, literary agent. Thank you all for your patience and support.