Do you understand?
And suddenly I did. I started to buck, flailing my body against metal like a hooked fish fighting for life.
It was the totem. That’s what it had been all along. The wood from an old ammo box had been used to replicate the boxy shape of a US Army signal truck, a truck that had once belonged to Echo Company of the 4038th Signal Battalion (Mobile). And the wire contraption above the totem represented the antenna which Echo used to so diligently relay signals. And me? I was the rat dangling from a string. The dead rat.
Madame Hoh started to laugh-more than laugh. She shrieked with glee. And then someone was beside her, someone shoving her out of the way. Someone I recognized. I’d seen him in the alley in Itaewon, taunting me, daring me to come after him. And of course I couldn’t have mistaken him because of what he held in his left hand. It was the man with the iron sickle.
In his other hand he held a narrow bottle. It was red, or filled with a red liquid. His hand twisted and I saw the label. The bottle and its contents were familiar to me. I saw them on every table in every mess hall since I’d been in the army. They were one of those manufacturers who’d landed a government contract decades ago and had been tenacious enough-and influential enough with Congress-to never let it go: Little Demon Hot Sauce, with a grinning red devil wielding a pitchfork on the label, fumes rising from the coals of hell.
The man with the iron sickle screwed the cap off the bottle, tossed it aside and, as Madame Hoh grabbed the back of my head and held on, he tilted the snout of the bottle into my right nostril and poured. Liquid pepper ignited the tender linings of my sinuses. I screamed and yelled and bucked, trying to snort and wheeze the burning flame upwards, out of my nose, but gravity kept it roiling inexorably into my skull, searing all the tender linings behind my eyeballs. Madame Hoh held on with surprising strength, and the man with the iron sickle continued to pour until the contents of the bottle had plunged deep into my nasal cavities. I coughed and retched and water poured from my eyes.
Despite the pain-or maybe in an attempt to avoid experiencing it fully-my mind was still evaluating evidence. I thought of the old couple at the PX snack stand, about how they’d said the man with the iron sickle sniffled as if he had a bad cold. Now I knew why. Somewhere in his distant past his sinuses had been violated by just such a treatment as I was receiving, leaving permanent damage. And I thought of how Mrs. Lee, the owner of the pochang macha, had told me about how he walked as if he were traipsing on egg shells, as if every step was painful to him. My livid ankles knew the genesis of that additional peculiarity.
If I felt any satisfaction in this analysis, it was soon swallowed up by another blast from the surging pepper. I coughed and screamed and cursed a company that would use a little demon as their logo.
Then I saw the iron sickle, held in his hand. He stepped toward me, raised it, and as he swung, I flinched. The rope gave way. I crashed head first to the ground. Dazed, I rolled on my side, raising my knees toward my chest, spitting and coughing and using gravity to cleanse my nose of the viciously burning fluid.
They were using candles now. Madame Hoh sat on a stool beside me, smoking blissfully, as if enjoying her cigarette after a fine meal. The man with the iron sickle sat opposite her, hands on his knees, the sickle dangling from relaxed fingers. Gently, with a soothing voice, Madame Hoh began to talk.
“They came in the fall,” she said. “We watched them march in their sturdy combat boots, crushing dried leaves beneath the thick soles, and we watched as they set up their equipment and laughed at us and pointed and tossed bits of chewing gum and candy to us children. We all squealed in delight.”
Hot sauce still drained from my nose, and I fought to breathe.
“And then they set up their equipment,” she said, “and yanked a long cord, and their generator rumbled to life, and the little metal cabin lit up with light. And some of the GIs set up guard positions with sandbags and others-I believe their commander-marched down into the village, one of them holding a rifle trained on us gawking country folk. We were simple then. We knew nothing of electricity and none of us had ever spoken into a phone and the idea of refrigeration was not something we’d even imagined.
“The officer dictated the terms. None of us would be allowed inside the perimeter of the campground they were setting up, and we were under no circumstances to leave the area of our little village without checking with him first. The elders complained about this because some of the men and women had to carry their produce down into the valley to sell. And the officer replied that until they moved on, there would be no more trips to the lowlands.
“And so we acquiesced because we’d seen other soldiers, South Korean soldiers, in the area, and when they gave orders the punishment for not obeying those orders was death. But we also knew the snows were coming, and the punishment for not bartering in the valley and bringing back grain to store for the winter was also death. So at night, with the approval of the elders, some of the young men sneaked out with A-frames strapped to their backs and made their way clandestinely into the valley.
“And then the sapper came. A North Korean, alone, separated from his unit. But he had a canvas belt filled with explosives. He sneaked close to the American lines, set up his lethal devices, and somehow ignited them, destroying the truck that stored their diesel and burning to death six GIs. Then he disappeared into the night.
“The Americans erupted in a frenzy, shooting into the black sky, screaming for help, and their commanding officer took charge. He led the men as the flames were doused and supervised the salvage operation. All night long, the burned soldiers screamed. Even down in the village we could hear their cries of agony. Finally, only one was left. Even though his voice was hoarse and singed by the fire, his hideous screams continued. None of us slept that night. Neither, I’m sure, did any of the GIs. Just before dawn, we heard a single gunshot and the screaming stopped. A squad of soldiers led by their commander left their encampment and within minutes they were in our village. Everyone was ripped out of their homes: men, women, and children.”
Behind the man with the iron sickle, flames licked out of a pit. They’d started a fire. I squirmed toward it, hoping for some warmth that would stop the chattering of my teeth. With her left foot, Madame Hoh kicked dust toward my face. I stopped.
“Unfortunately,” she continued, “at exactly that moment, two young men with grain sacks hanging heavily from their A-frames trudged up the last incline of the trail. The GIs arrested them immediately, and the interrogations started. The elders denied that any of us had anything to do with the explosion and told the commander about the North Korean commando, but he didn’t believe any of it. From that moment on, we were kept under constant surveillance, allowed to do nothing without the permission of an American soldier. The snow came, thicker than we’d seen in years. The GIs were grumbling about trouble they’d heard about over their radio, trouble to the north. Apparently, the United Nations advance into North Korea, all the way to the border with China, had been stalled and now they were in retreat.
“ ‘Joe Chink,’ the GIs told us. ‘Joe Chink.’ That’s all they could think about. Massive legions of Chinese Communist soldiers were on their way south, but the men of Echo Company had to stay put and relay communications. But soon they ran out of fuel for their generators, and all transmission stopped. The commander saved just enough diesel to power their truck so the company would be able to drive out of the Taebaek Range. But it was too late. The roads were impassable, clogged with snow and ice. So the Americans waited, holding us as their hostages. Their slaves. The GIs grew bored. Soon they were bothering the unmarried girls. When that wasn’t enough, they had their way with the married women. When husbands protested, they were beaten. And then they started turning their eyes on the younger girls, the ones who hadn’t become women yet.