He turned and looked north – and saw the lanterns. There were at least a dozen specks of dim, glowing yellow on the dark upslope in front of the hospital, maybe a half mile away. They were spread out at different heights and distances. The way they swung and shifted, they were being carried. Easy targets if anyone got nervous.
A warning? A curse? Sanderson was no help, big surprise, but there had to be someone around who knew what was happening. He thought about the kid, his unsmiling eyes, the grandmother’s frantic speech. What had the old man said, the word that Young hadn’t known? Gangshi, something like that.
West walked back into the light of the camp. It was nothing, sure, a nothing little mystery that he’d locked onto because he was dog-tired and heart-sore… but then, why did the perfectly clear night have that electric, unstable feeling that preceded action, or a storm? Something was coming.
Maybe he’d see if he could find a ROK with some English, to explain what had scared the villagers away.
Fourteen-year-old Lee Mal-Chin was sanitizing bedpans when the three soldiers came in, two PFCs and a single stripe. Of the sixty beds in Post-Op 1 only a third were taken, mostly ROKA enlisted from a small skirmish near the DMZ the day before. Lee saw the trio stop and talk to Doctor Jimmy, who spoke at length before gesturing them towards one of the beds… the American man who’d been shot in the stomach, brought in by helicopter in the afternoon.
Lee went on with his work more slowly, listening to the soldiers talk as they made their way to the cot. He understood most of what they said. He had spent the last two years learning English with anyone who would talk to him. Mostly he talked with Father Maloney now. The father was a good teacher. There was also Corporal Timmy with the ordnance, he told Lee what Father Maloney would not say – the bad words. That Timmy was jaemi, a real gas.
The big soldier towhead was full of bad words (shit and asshole and fuck) and loudly told his buddies how he bet these gooks had never had it so good. Lee wiped out a pan with bleach water and kept his expression perfectly blank. It did not pay to draw attention, for any reason. Many of the UN gun-in hated Korea, and didn’t much like Koreans, either, for their poor and simple ways. Lee could even understand, a little. He had grown up near Seoul, the son of a shopkeeper, and his father had taken pains to see that his children were educated. Out here in the hills they didn’t have radios or newspapers. They worked the land and told traditional stories to explain the world. The village behind the 8011th had bugged out only two days ago, when they’d seen lanterns on the hill. Choi Yeo, a man from the village, had come to warn them, telling stories of gangshi and the bad temple to the north. Nearly everyone laughed. Lee had laughed, too. The villagers were smisin-ui, they believed in magic and ghosts. Was it any wonder that the Americans treated them like children?
The three soldiers settled around the bed of the wounded man, speaking gently. The injured soldier opened his eyes and managed to smile at them. A single tear leaked from his eye. Lee was so struck by the simple joy of their meeting that he didn’t realize the big soldier had turned and was glaring at him.
“What are you looking at?”
Lee immediately looked away, lowered his head, backed up a step. He was still small enough to seem a child and could usually avoid conflict with the deungsin.
Another soldier told him to cool it. Lee didn’t look to see if the big man became cool or not, he got lost fast. Nurse Miss Jenny was taking blood pressures at the other end of the room and he found a stack of blankets that she might need.
He liked Nurse Miss Jenny – he liked all of the nurses, but Jenny had a big round bosom and a smile like sun on the river – and spent a few minutes translating for her when a ROKA soldier woke up and started asking questions. His name was Yi Sam and he didn’t remember being shot and was confused. Miss Jenny spoke slowly and clearly so that Lee could explain where he was and what had happened. Lee didn’t show off his English, but he always helped the nurses. They were kind to him in turn, they brought him rolls and sometimes chocolate. Chocolate was the best.
“Gangshi,” someone said loudly.
Miss Jenny had gone back to blood pressures, was talking at him about the upcoming movie night – it was the 8011th’s turn to see Treasure Island – but Lee didn’t hear her anymore. A man had joined the group with the angry soldier, a tall sergeant with a hard jaw and a raspy voice. He was looking around the tent, his eyebrows raised.
“Anyone? Gangshi? Kim, you know what that means?”
A ROKA soldier three cots away who’d had his testicles and most of his right thigh blown off by a cart mine was half-sitting, staring at the sergeant. “What is he saying?” he asked, in Korean. A couple of the soldiers he’d come in with stirred. Lee had spoken with the man earlier, he was Pak Mun-Hee from north of Pusan. “Did he say gangshi?”
“Gangshi,” the American sergeant said again. “You know that word?”
Pak Mun-Hee managed a weak salute when he realized the sergeant was talking to him. One of Pak’s friends looked frightened; two others grinned.
Nurse Miss Jenny spoke up, looking directly at Lee. “Lee, isn’t that what you said when you were telling us about the bug out? Gangshi? That’s the word you used.”
Lee froze, and the tall sergeant focused his attention, stepped away from his group. “Your name is Lee? You speak English?”
“No,” Lee said. “Number ten.”
“He’s putting you on, Sergeant,” Miss Jenny said. “He speaks English real well. He told us the villagers left because of those lanterns. Because they’re calling all of the dead men home.” She smiled prettily. “Only I remember because I wrote a letter to my mother last night, and told her about it. It’s so spooky.”
Pak Mun-Hee had been speaking with his friends, and now raised his voice, calling out, “This man asks about gangshi. What is the situation here?”
Another soldier laughed, and Lee tried to smile, it was all so stupid. But there was a tension now, many of the injured talking amongst themselves, laughter and anxiety quickening the air.
The sergeant seemed to feel the urgency. He walked right up to Lee and crouched in front of him. “What does it mean, gangshi?”
Playing dumb had become so deeply ingrained that he almost didn’t answer, but the man was looking into his face, asking him, and Lee had been taught to speak right.
“The belief is that a man who die away from home, he do not rest,” Lee said. “His soul is homesick. A family hires the priest to call the man home. He… jeompeu. Jumps?”
Lee stretched his arms out in front of him, stiff, and hopped forward.
The sergeant stood up, his shoulders relaxing. After a moment, he smiled, showing all of his teeth. “So a gangshi is a jumping dead man?”
Lee nodded. “The farmers believe this old story.”
A patient cried out from across the room, a boy who was likely from a farm. His voice was high, hysterical. “We must guard against them, before it’s too late!”
Miss Jenny stood up at once, starting towards the shouter. “Now you calm down, there’s no reason to be shouting like that.”