Korea 1950
The platoon had been a new one. Raw recruits, soft and unused to the rigors of combat. Against the overwhelming numbers which swept south it wouldn’t have made a difference.
“You are a journalist. But now you will show truth. When the world sees how Americans fall before the mighty Korean soldier, all will know the days of capitalist oppression are done.”
Captain Hung Mung Soon returned Kiet di Vries his Pentax, and pointed at the corpses.
“Take as many pictures as you need. We have a plentiful supply of your film,” said the Captain.
“I’m no journalist. Just a photographer. I don’t write stories,” said Kiet. “My colleague does that. Where is Martin?”
“Your American friend has already confessed to being a C.I.A. spy who spreads lies to weaken the spirit of the revolution. We do not require falsehoods. Your pictures will tell truth. Now, take photos. Or are you also an American spy, interested only in lies?”
Kiet bit his lip, shook his head, and held his camera up. He took location shots; wide field to show the overturned jeep and truck lying amongst craters from an artillery barrage. Then he started taking close-ups of the bodies.
He hadn’t expected to see scenes like this again, not after Germany. He was meant to be covering an election, not a war. Seeing the bodies brought back memories of Normandy and the Ardennes. A decapitated body swam in the viewfinder as his hands shook. The shutter clicked, sliding beneath his sweaty finger. The picture would be worthless. He thumbed the lever to move the film on and looked for the next shot. A black kid, tight afro hair close cropped. His left leg was turned at the knee, the ligaments ripped apart so the foot rested on the thigh. He had also been shot, at close range.
Kiet’s fear leached away. The boiling turmoil quietened down, dampening back memories he had spent six years burying deep. This was an injured man, killed in cold blood. Kiet snapped away. Icy anger stilled his tremors, allowing him to take sharp, focused pictures. Until he developed them he wouldn’t know, but he was sure these would develop crisp, clear, and damning to the Communist bastards.
He moved around the battlefield, the slaughter-field. Some men had been lucky. Killed by the initial bombardment, or the crashes it caused. Others had survived, until the North Koreans arrived.
Every time it looked like he had stopped, Captain Soon was at his heels demanding pictures from another angle. Eventually, after three rolls of film, even the Korean was satisfied that every aspect had been captured. He took the camera back, and the rolls of exposed film.
“What now, Captain Soon?”
Kiet was careful always to use the rank. He had no desire to lose more teeth. Asking the question was risky, but he gambled on the air of good humor emanating from his captor.
“Back to the compound. You can tell your fellow capitalists what is happening to imperial invaders in Korea. Maybe soon your governments will see sense. Then maybe, you can go home.”
§
The compound, an embassy requisitioned at gunpoint, was empty. The others moved to a different camp.
Captain Soon roared with laughter as Kiet stood looking at the empty rooms. The ice of controlled wrath stilled Kiet, the core of him froze the anger solid even as his heart pounded in his chest.
“Maybe they were all spies, and deserving the lot of a spy,” the Captain said.
Kiet stared ahead, willing his fingers not to curl into fists, not give them a reason to shoot him out of hand.
“Never mind capitalist film-man. Tonight you have all these rooms just for you. Like the palace of a king.” The Korean walked away, still laughing. The camera and film went with him.
Kiet looked for some clue or message from his fellow captives. He found none and could only hope them well. Another soldier appeared with a bowl. The same plain sticky rice and turnip he had eaten for three weeks. There was more today, nearly a complete fistful instead of the small ball that sat easily in his palm.
The soldier ignored his thanks.
Afterwards Kiet lay on his bunk. In the dark, images rose up. Faces. Names on dog-tags, where he could find them. With the images came the sense of smell. Fear of Soon, and horror of what he was seeing, had helped block it out at the time. Now there was nothing stopping the memory. The rich iron smell of blood; raw earth, newly turned over; gasoline; piss and shit on the dead men, either from ruptured abdomens, or where their bowels had given way.
Suddenly Kiet was running for the toilet. Bile burnt his throat as the food came back up. When it was over he crept back to his bunk and, eventually, slept.
The next day he was taken to another field, similar to the first. Captain Soon directed while Kiet shuffled about like an automaton, unable to process more horror. They headed off again.
The shot that killed the driver passed close to Kiet’s ear, buzzing like an angry hornet. The driver collapsed sideways and the vehicle veered off the dirt road, fell down a ditch, and rolled over. More shots sounded, and the door was yanked open. Dizzy and bruised, Kiet looked into a barrel, and the dirty face of a U.N. soldier.
“With them or not?”
“Kiet di Vries! Hostage! Hostage!”
A hand reached in and helped him out.
“Anything broken?”
“No, but my camera, my film.” He turned to go back in the vehicle. A hand clamped his shoulder, freezing him as he came face to face with Captain Soon. The face was pale, drained. Kiet could see the wound in his chest. The Korean groaned and Kiet jumped.
“Bloody ‘ell, Dutchman,” said the soldier behind him. “We can maybe save your life. Leave the bleedin’ baubles.”
An original story and photograph by Stuart C Turnbull.