Rice Covered in Junk Mail
In the chronicles of the United States Army during the winding down period of the Vietnam War, this narrative chronicles a snippet of the events that unfolded. While certain aspects of this tale are grounded in reality, with accurate names of cities and towns, all people involved have had their identities concealed to uphold their privacy, whether with guilt or innocence.
The time in which this story unfolds portrays a markedly different version of the US Army compared to the present day. My account of these events is melded with my experiences during my service in South Korea. It's essential to recognize that this story serves as no reflection on the dedicated individuals who selflessly serve our nation today. Indeed, I have the utmost regard for these selfless individuals. Unfortunate circumstances had led to my induction, as the draft had reached my lottery number. I'd already completed two years of junior college and was toiling towards pursuing a bachelor's degree. Nonetheless, with no other option, I found myself on a journey to Chicago for a US Army induction physical.
Transformation in both the US Army and South Korea must be acknowledged as well. In spite of the events I describe, the majority of South Koreans have made way for a life of hard work, striving to live their lives under the prevailing political and economic circumstances at that time. This story is merely a recollection of my personal experiences and experience no intention of disrespecting the Korean people then or now.
Please imagine the following scene:
I never intended to wait in line alongside other men, dressed only in my jockey shorts, yet that's what happened. Following the instructions sent by the local draft board, I, Eric Winslow, was instructed to assemble at a local restaurant the night prior to travelling to Chicago for an Army induction physical examination. No matter my aspirations to finish my education or progress in my current endeavors, the draft saw fit to claim me.
The designated time arrived at around eleven, and we were ushered onto a bus for the trek to the train station in Mattoon. The subsequent train ride was peppered with sleepless nights for all onboard. Upon disembarking at Chicago's station, another line formed as we were informed to take note of our named being called. As we were called out, we'd hop on a bus bound for the induction center.
Conducting a plethora of tests, the medical staff poked, prodded, drew blood, and inspected our eyesight, hearing, and overall health. Once all of this was completed, they gathered our now baseline clothing and stored in a locker, tasking us with waiting until results materialized.
On the following day, we congregated as a formation, with one standing out slightly more prominent than the rest. I was ensnared in this group, swearing to defend my country against all foes, including domestic threats. My parents were briefly contacted to inform them of my predicament. With a single phone call in my pocket, the next bus journey took me to O'Hare Airport and then subsequently to Fort Dix, New Jersey.
Fort Dix, the setting of the following events, was somewhat tolerable for the initial two days. I occupied a holding barracks, so to speak, until our Basic Training contingent had swelled to substantial numbers. The drill sergeants in this stage were relatively relaxed, providing us with some leisure time. Donning our recently acquired uniforms and returning our earthly possessions to a trunk, I prepared for our next phase. On the third day, it was back on the bus to our new temporary abode, where we'd remain for the better part of the next eight weeks.
Here, my world inverted. Dissociated and divided into batteries, we were beset with consecutive barracks, lockers, and footlockers. The drill sergeants appeared consumed with a need for rapidity and compliance, employing a barrage of screams to demonstrate their displeasure. I found that my past experiences instructed me well. Having worked through summers during high school, I'd been subjected to bosses demanding my obedience and even terminating those who couldn't meet these expectations. Furthermore, my years in junior college instilled a healthy fear of failing if I neglected my studies. It became clear that my survival in Basic Training depended on my swift acclimation to these circumstances.
The Army adopted an unusual method of enforcement. To avoid physical dismissal from the force, the drill sergeants took great pains to make certain you withstand the scrutiny of military standards. Repeating Basic Training twice would have only intensified the tribulations, and I'd spent my days reinforcing my ability to follow orders.
In retrospect, my background set me apart. Exposure to various experiences during high school allowed me to appreciate the consequences of employee turnover, while the guidance received in junior college instilled a strong sense of expectation to meet academic obligations. The synergy of these elements hastened my adjustment to the Basic Training's regimen.
This situation came down to this point. Don't perform any actions unless instructed to, and carry out all instructions when they're provided. The younger individuals didn't pick up on this as swiftly. There were a couple who never got it. They would do something like smoke a cigarette before the drill sergeant announced break time, and subsequently engage in a multitude of push-ups on the parade ground while the rest of us idly watched. Talking during ranks or substituting a "Yes, Drill Sergeant" for "OK" typically yielded twenty push-ups. Drinking from your canteen during a march prior to authorization led to running laps around the formation of training recruits. I succeeded in escaping most of this due to allowing the Army to oversee my every move and moment.
Basic training was primarily fascinating, resembling watching the younger individuals make mistakes which carried consequences. I gained insight into weapons and the Army's workings. Thankfully, drills were straightforward and at times even amusing for me.
The physical aspects of basic weren't gratifying. Having spent an extended period of time seated at a desk in class or completing homework, I was greatly out of shape. The daily runs, physical training, and numerous marches to classrooms and the ranges initially brought discomfort. However, by the end of basic training, I had gained ten pounds of muscle and was in optimal physical condition.
Upon passing all the assessments, I graduated and obtained my initial stripe. Subsequently, we spent the following day in the day room as the senior drill sergeant assigned our future assignments.
Certain names were heard followed by "Eleven Bravo," the Military Occupational Specialty for infantry. Several recruits were allocated artillery, armor, or communication roles. They recognized that such duties likely signaled deployment to Vietnam. I couldn't sympathize. As it turned out, the other five and I also received the same MOS. The following day, we were en route to Ft. Bliss, Texas.
The division between Ft. Bliss and Ft. Dix was stark. The drill sergeants here demanded clean barracks, appropriate dress, and respectful behavior. Nonetheless, they were notably amiable. We conducted physical training, but only after we were exhausted, as compared to basic. Most of the time was spent in training. However, the drill sergeants reiterated that 16H was an outdated MOS and we'd likely be reassigned upon receiving our next orders.
They were correct, albeit we weren't reassigned. Instead, I spent eight weeks learning to operate radios, field phones, and analyze aerial photographs. This was the role of an Operations and Intelligence Specialist. I received orders for a school in air defense, remaining at Ft. Bliss. After another eight weeks, I was competent in operating radar consoles and managing fire control missions. I'd also acquired knowledge about a certain bar in Juarez, Mexico and Oso Negro vodka. Frequently, this influence resulted in discomfort the following day.
Initially, it was disheartening that my orders didn't indicate a potential destination like Florida, Hawaii, or Okinawa like our instructors implied. Instead, they mandated that I report to the 8th Army Replacement Center at Camp Humphries in South Korea. On the day of my flight, I took leave of my parents and boarded a plane bound for Chicago, then Ft. Lewis, Washington. Three days later, I embarked on a journey to Incheon, South Korea.
At Camp Humphries, the routine consisted of eating, sleeping, and the club intended for enlisted men. I spent my evenings there, consuming beers with a couple of pals from Ft. Bliss and appreciating the entertainment.
The entertainment was a bevy of young South Korean women with an unusually provocative nature. They'd descend beside you, explain "me too horny. You want short time?", and then massage your penis for a while before informing you of the cost. It seemed their comprehension of English was limited to these phrases. When asked questions, they'd merely nod and persist in performing manual stimulation.
This was an inexplicable experience. In junior college, simply dating someone several times would result in escalating intimacy. They'd even return the favor by masturbating you, provided you used a condom. I had courted many individuals prior at home, yet no one had gripped my penis through my trousers and furiously masturbated me. This appeared extremely unusual and the experience was rather uncomfortable for all but a few of us. We simply sipped our beers and watched as each individual recoiled following a recklessly intense episode.
Upon arriving at Camp Humphries, we turned down the offer of "short time" from the women as we were all put in a room where we listened to learn about the consequences of engaging with so-called "business girls." The doctor outlined the destructive impacts of venereal diseases (VD) and mentioned the growing resistance to penicillin. He claimed that stronger drugs were required to treat the aforementioned diseases.
Rumors circulated regarding a secret venereal illness named "the black clap." It was said to be incurable. If someone contracted it, the Army would deceive the family, telling them their loved one perished in a bomb blast or succumbed to a super-contagious illness. The deceased would then be shipped home in a sealed casket, confined on a remote island until death.
While some believed the doctor's warnings, we remained skeptical about the existence of "the black clap."
A week after arriving at Incheon, I traveled to the Headquarters of 1st Battalion (HAWK), 2nd ADA, 38th ARTY near Seoul by bus. The journey alleviated the mundaneness somewhat. The only form of transportation on such a wide road as an interstate in the USA that operated was the Army bus. My bus ride was enhanced by an impressive sight - a man sweeping the shoulders with a broom, or witnessing a farmer transporting a hog on a bicycle. The latter involved getting the hog drunk before tying it to the rack.
Spending the night at Battalion Headquarters continued the following day, when a clerk glanced at my file and sported a grin.
"You can type, can't you?"
I indeed took a typing class in high school and was proficient; albeit not with high speed.
The grin widened as he quipped,
"The clerk at Charlie Battery is going home next week. You're gonna replace him."
A few days later, I drove the Charlie Battery mail truck over a path that resembled a pothole-ridden road in the United States. I soon understood why this was the case, as the steep mountainous terrain posed vehicle control challenges if driven at higher speeds. Miles away, another truck, however, easily traversed the path at a respectable pace.
Charlie Battery was located 20 miles from Seoul and provided extraordinary views. Although the rice paddies, which tinted the mountainside with their terraces, were not yet green in February, they were noteworthy. The site's beauty reached new heights in summer when the rice fields were lush. When skies were clear, we could see the Yellow Sea in the distance.
After a brief period, I took on my responsibilities diligently, as per First Sergeant Watts' expectations. He was a fantastic individual and taught me valuable Army lessons. My role involved answering the field phone that connected our base to the outside world.
Each day, we sent a deuce and a half to Battalion to transport outgoing mail, films, and any other items we requisitioned. Returning soldiers had the opportunity to hitch a ride if they had passes and wanted to visit Seoul. The truck would leave following morning formation, arriving at Battalion around nine in the morning. It would collect the mail, new movies, and, ideally, the returning soldiers in time for lunch.
Command Sergeant Major Hobbs occupied a desk near a window overlooking the Battalion compound's main gate. He kept tabs on every mail truck passing through. The routine was so consistent that I could nearly predict when his calls would arrive. My duty was to respond to the field phone and notify First Sergeant Watts of the call from Command Sergeant Major Hobbs - a reminder that our soldiers typically fell short of his high standards concerning their looks and conduct.
I'd shield my handset and convey to Top that the gadget was for him and who it belonged to. He'd grieve "Damn" softly, and proceed to grab his phone.
"1st Sergeant Watts."
What would follow was often a chorus of "Yes, Sergeant Major," or "No, Sergeant Major," back and forth. After approximately five minutes, Top would end the call and head for the bottom drawer of his table. A bit of Jim Beam would be splashed into his coffee cup from the container. Around about a half hour later, Top would settle down, and the rest of the day would pass relatively smoothly.
I was delighted that I didn't have to endure most of the Army chaos my fellow soldiers experienced. I got along swimmingly with the Captain and the Executive Officer, both of whom were much younger than I was, thus we had many shared interests.
I would typically spending the weekend evenings in the enlisted men's club on our base or the teeny village roughly a quarter mile away. There were three establishments in the village. Calling them clubs may not be accurate - they were more like compact spaces with a bar and stools, a few tables and chairs, a small dance floor, and a pool table.
These clubs were serving American beer purchased by the soldiers in our company and sold to the bars for ten bucks per case we'd buy it from the PX for five. The bars would then sell it back to us for fifty cents per can. Korean beer and a sweet, syrupy-flavored Korean wine called champagne were also on offer for under a dollar. The owner's wife would concoct some food for you, usually ramen noodles or summer kimchi, but sometimes I'd be extra fortunate and they'd have barbecued beef which was exquisite.
Each business establishment had its own cordial hostesses to cater to the customers. The majority of these women weren't particularly stunning, but they would sit with you and permit you to buy them a Coke for a short time. They wouldn't be promiscuous like the women at Camp Humphries. Instead, they'd dance with you and ensure your torso felt their breasts touching it, and their legs were brushing yours. Then, they'd inquire if you intended to spend the night or merely desired a "short time."
A few guys possessed "yobo's," which were ladies they lived with outside of duty hours and who were supposed to be faithful to their men. These women would find their way to the base most weekends. A few business hostesses visited the base without their men in hopes of escorting a soldier home. I couldn't comprehend how this conformed to Army regulations, but it seemed to work.
I refused to engage in this because I had to write the VD (Venereal Disease) report every week. The Army didn't officially condone prostitution, but they were pragmatic about it: they knew they couldn't prevent soldiers from visiting the business hostesses, so they tried to inform the soldiers to make a wise choice.
The VD report consisted of a list of all the village's business hostesses and their latest VD test results. The test was conducted by the village doctor and witnessed by our medic. It was posted in each of the three clubs in the village and in our own club on the base. Upon failing to post results, the club would be banned from the base.
I considered this approach to be quite cool until Billy, the medic, explained how the process truly worked.
"Sure, it looks great," he said, "but it's all a sham. If the girl's menstruating, the doctor can’t collect a swab to conduct a test, so she won't be checked. Even if she does get tested, a pack of American cigarettes will do the trick. I wouldn't recommend putting your dick anywhere near any of them," he warned.
Numerous soldiers used condoms. One, however, was Private Jackson, who was lacking in intelligence. He had contracted the clap within the first week of being on base, visited the sick call for some penicillin, and battled the aftermath for a couple weeks. He departed for home a couple months after I joined Charlie. The clap had befallen Private Jackson twelve times in mere thirteen months.
Aside from the offices for the Captain, Executive Officer, and orderly room, the quonset hut that served as the battery HQ encompassed a small medic's office, supply stores, a small shop where you could order Korean items, and a barbershop. The barber was a Korean man who provided excellent trims. However, he left the position about three months into my service there.
Clearly, haircuts are a significant matter in the military - they are practically equal to protecting top-secret nuclear facilities and achieving maximum preparedness. With no option to dispatch the entire contingent to Battalion Headquarters weekly for a haircut, we required a replacement barber. Our interpreter, Mr. Yu, located one.
Three days after the previous barber left, a new one, Miss Park Mi Cha, arrived. This secretary from the company immediately stood out due to her fluent English, stunning looks, and her lack of affiliation with any of her colleagues. As a result, many of the male employees started getting haircuts again.
Some men, particularly the married ones, enjoyed being around a female companion who didn't demand payment for sexual favors. Others simply liked the back massage they received after their haircuts. A few tried to ask Miss Park on dates, but she always politely declined, responding with a simple "no."
Being stationed just 20 feet away from the barbershop, I couldn't help but take notice of the attractive newcomer. As I sat at my desk, I'd frequently see her walk over to the female restroom at the enlisted men's club since there were no facilities available for women on base. She'd leave around 4:00 p.m., and I'd remain at my desk, watching her depart.
A week into her tenure, she gave me my first haircut. Though the old barber had been skilled, there was a remarkable difference in having Miss Park cut my hair. She was gentle and asked, in a soft voice, "turn this way" while gently guiding my head to where she wanted it. Her five-minute massage left a lingering tingle through my entire body.
After a couple of weeks, Miss Park started smiling at me when she arrived and left each day. She would greet us with a cheery "see you tomorrow," which I often believed was directed towards me.
One day, as I returned for my fifth haircut that month, she cut it and massaged my scalp before asking for payment. I handed her a handful of Korean Won and inquired as to her interest in joining me in Suwon on Saturday afternoon.
Miss Park hesitated, replying, "I cannot do that."
"Why not?"
"Because I am not like the other businesswomen."
Amused, I replied, "Exactly. That's why I'm asking you. I just want to explore the market, and I can't speak Korean. I'd like you to translate for me. We could also grab something to eat there."
She smiled bashfully.
"I would enjoy a trip to the market, and I do know a restaurant in Suwon."
I agreed to meet outside the gate at one in the afternoon. Arriving, I found Miss Park looking as beautiful as ever in her uniform. Just like always, she smiled warmly.
"Would you like to go to Suwon with me?"
"Yes, we could take a bus."
"Excellent. One will be along soon. Let's walk to the bus stop."
After a 15-minute walk, we arrived at the stop. Designated as Nam Yang, it was a larger village compared to our own. After waiting 15 more minutes, a bus pulled up. I'd never been on a Korean bus before, and it was a unique experience.
The bus, while crowded, wasn't uncomfortably so. Miss Park sat next to a woman carrying a woven basket covered with cloth. They chatted energetically in Korean. The man next to me turned to the woman with the basket and asked something. They exchanged words for a few seconds before the woman nodded, and the man took out some bills.
Without hesitation, the woman pulled back the cloth on her basket, revealing a live rooster tied beside the others there. The man gave her a few bills, and she placed the rooster beneath his seat. I shared my astonishment with Miss Park.
"You wouldn't see anything like that on a bus in the US, would you?"
"No, not in the slightest."
"These people are travelling to Suwon's market," Miss Park explained. "The woman with the basket is bringing chickens to sell. That lady has eggs for sale. It's how they make money to buy things."
Enjoying our day in Suwon, Miss Park pointed out the bullet-ridden stones at the entrance of the city's walls.
"These are scars from bullets during the war," she volunteered. "Though I wasn't born yet, I've heard about the war in school."
"I recall being around three at the time. I remember having an uncle who served in the Army and was sent to Korea—he hardly ever spoke of his experience, so it must've been quite troublesome."
Her gentle smile always made an impact. Laughing, she mentioned something in Korean.
"Is there a place nearby where we can get something to eat?" I inquired.
"Yes! Let's go there."
Together, we explored Suwon, enjoying the opportunity to interact with the local townsfolk, join a smaller community, and enjoy each other's company away from the bustling workplace.
Many people here have the same thoughts, but no one talks about it. This signals the beginning of the market. What would you like to buy for your mom?
I wasn't sure, but I'd know when I saw it. Miss Park smiled.
"I understand what a Korean woman might like. Maybe your mom would like the same thing. Let me show you."
We visited a dozen or so small open-air shops. Miss Park showed me various jewelry that didn't match Mom's style. She showed me some shoes, but I didn't know her size. In the final shop, we found something suitable. It was a traditional Korean dress made of fabric embellished with gold thread in various shapes and patterns. Mom likely wouldn't wear it anywhere, but I planned to tell her she could use it as a robe. Miss Park asked me about Mom's size. I estimated her height to be slightly taller than the shop's owner, and about the same weight.
Miss Park conversed with the shop owner for a while and then returned to me.
The shop owner doesn't have such a large dress, but she will sew one. We need to return next Saturday. The cost will be $16. What color would you like?
I liked the price and the way the same dress looked on the shop owner. I examined all the dresses and chose a blue one, as Mom liked blue. Miss Kim relayed that to the shop owner, who nodded and smiled. I gave her half the money, and Miss Park paid the shop owner and informed us that we'd return next Saturday to pick it up.
We proceeded to explore more shops afterward. The market was vast, and you could purchase everything from chopsticks to chickens, from fresh produce to something that looked like a dried rat, which hung in one of the permanent shop windows. I inquired about the store with the dried rat. Miss Park said it was a pharmacy, but instead of modern medicines, it sold traditional Korean ones. I didn't ask about the dried rat. I didn't want to know.
Miss Kim guided us to a restaurant next. Everything was written in Korean, so I couldn't determine what they offered in terms of food. I asked her for her recommendation. She browsed the menu for a moment, then smiled.
"The chicken and rice will be delicious. I'll also have summer kimchi, but you shouldn't. It could make you ill. For something to drink, I recommend rice water. This is water boiled by the cook when making the rice, and it's safe."
Having experienced the consequences of consuming fresh vegetables, I knew better than to order them. I'd made that mistake once before in our small village. The issue with fresh vegetables was the soil they were grown in. For centuries, every available square inch of land in Korea had been farmed, leaving the soil lacking in fertility. I'd arrived in Korea in February, and that spring, I observed local farmers carrying soil from the mountains to the rice paddies. They spread it on the paddies but also carried something else.
There were several public latrines in our tiny village. They weren't the same as my grandpa's farm. His latrine had a seat. These had just a hole in the floor. To use it, you had to squat over the hole. A few days after that, I noticed something concerning in the latrines.
There were several communal latrines in our small village. They weren't like the ones on my grandpa's farm. Instead of having seats, they featured a hole in the floor. To use them, you had to squat over the hole. Apart from that, they functioned like regular latrines. However, there was one other difference.
Every spring, the "honey dippers" collected the feces from each latrine. They then spread it on the rice paddies and fields where Koreans grew cabbage, onions, beets, and other vegetables. It provided exceptional fertilizer and grew cabbages the size of basketballs. It also contained a bacterium I'd never encountered before. I adored my beet top kimchi. It was beet tops, green onions, saffron oil, and hot peppers. However, it didn't reciprocate the feeling and made me visit the bathroom frequently for a few days.
Miss Kim laughed when I told her that story.
"We Koreans are immune. The vegetables in the chicken and rice are cooked, but avoid any more raw vegetables, or you'll have the same experience."
The following weekend, we returned to that very same store in Suwon for me to pick up my dress. Spending our time aimlessly in the town afterwards, Miss Park guided me through several permanent stores. Reminiscent of an American strip mall, only this time, I couldn't comprehend the descriptions.
Following our two trips to Suwon, Miss Park and I gradually started spending Saturdays together. After finishing my work duties, I arrived in Nam Yang, transformed into civilian attire, and would subsequently meet her there. We ventured into Suwon with its bustling markets or hopped on buses to explore the bustling metropolis of Seoul. Exhibiting similarities to any American city, Seoul had skyscrapers brandished with the names of United States-based corporations, as well as myriad shops showcasing a staggering array of goods. trafficking pedestrians and vehicles just as heavily as Chicago or St. Louis. Each excursion concluded with an evening meal prior to our departure, and I'd deposit Miss Park back in Nam Yang before strolling back to the base.
If we traveled to Seoul, our return train to Suwon didn't permit us to catch the bus heading towards Nam Yang, so I summoned a taxi in Suwon to transport us. While most cabs didn't relish maneuvering the bumpy road, a hefty tip usually lifted their spirits. Having nothing else to occupy the dollars, holding Miss Park's hand in a cab during the hour-long commute thrilled me more than enduring the cramped, packed bus.
On one of these adventures, the cab driver spoke incoherently to Miss Park during our journey. Based on her body language, I surmised she was frustrated by the interaction. The cab driver barked something else, eliciting an even angrier response from Miss Park. As I escorted her towards her living quarters, I inquired, "What were you two discussing?"
"He was inquiring about our marital status. I claimed we were merely friends. Then he asked whether I was a prostitute. I replied I wasn't a prostitute and he should refrain from prying.", she responded.
"Why would he pose questions like that?"
"This is a vestige from the Korean War. In an era prior to this momentous conflict, sole Korean men associating with Korean women were the norm. When the battle erupted, hordes of Americans invaded Korea with ensuing sexual pursuits. Since prime Korean males were away at war, unable to provide sustenance or raise their own crops for their families, some women around military bases turned to prostitution to ensure survival. Hence, many Koreans presume any woman harboring non-Korean company is a prostitute."
Such knowledge about my motor pool sergeant was readily available to me. Witnessing the bliss in his married home in the vicinity of Nam Yang, I was conscious of the issue yet recognized she had not been a prostitute prior to the liaison. She was employed at 8th Army Headquarters' laundry when they couple met. Inform Miss Park of this anecdote, and her nodding confirmed her awareness.
"Yes, I'm acquainted with her. The residents of Nam Yang have an eccentric notion of her. They speculate she must have been a prostitute once. Moreover, they argue Korean women should unite only with other Koreans - a belief perpetuating the notion of racial purity," Miss Park elaborated.
"If you had married a fellow countryman, the public's opinion of you wouldn't be so negative, correct?"
"Truthfully, my circumstances differ. I'd be shunned regardless of whom I wed, as I'm already of mixed origin. The progeny of any union with me would suffer tarnished reputations at school or while navigating job markets.", she commented.
"What would your parents respond? Isn't one of them Korean?"
Miss Park's eyes clouded over and her smile vanished, "I can't be certain as I was raised in an orphanage in Nam Yang. When I was cognizant of the world, they divulged a devastating truth; the same day a farmer's wife entered the orphanage with a baby, she left her there. It was widely believed that any woman abandoning her child held only one explanation: she had just engaged in illicit relations.
Whether my mother was a Korean prostitute or not, I'm uncertain. My father was almost undoubtedly an American soldier. Being raised in the Nam Yang orphanage, I was similar to its other inhabitants. Their mothers were primarily Korean prostitutes and their fathers typically American soldiers."
As words escaped Miss Park's lips, I thought of all the parental bonding moments I'd experienced with my parents while growing up. Horrified imagining a life absent of a mother or father, I wrapped my arm around her. "It must have been a tragic way to grow up."
"Certainly, it had its ups and downs. School wasn't particularly enjoyable. The other kids would barely interact with us, preferring to call us slurs rather than strike up a conversation. Their mistreatment of us sometimes left the teacher indifferent, as he thought these actions were justified.
"However, there were good aspects as well. The children at the orphanage were generous and shared a deep bond, and the adults treated us with kindness. We had a roof over our heads and food on the table. We even attended the same school.
"School was significant for us. The woman and man in charge urged us to focus on our studies to learn a skill that would allow us to secure better livelihoods. This was necessary because only a small number of Korean men would consider marrying one of the girls, and the boys could only find low-paying jobs unless they learned a trade.
"This prompted your inquiry about me becoming a barber? To answer your question, I relocated to Seoul for educational purposes. While in Seoul, I heard about job opportunities at American military bases if I had a grasp of English. I enrolled in a Methodist Missionary School in Seoul, attending classes twice a week. After graduating, I worked as a barber at 8th Army headquarters for a time. I appreciated the barbershop, being able to practice my English, but I did not enjoy the hectic pace of life in Seoul. I returned to Nam Yang for a brief trip, and upon hearing about available positions on your base, I decided to return to Nam Yang.
"I couldn't help but grin.
"I'm quite fortunate to have met you."
Miss Park's smile, once faded, returned.
"Seriously?"
"Absolutely, I enjoy your presence."
"Would you let me prepare a meal for you sometime? Perhaps an evening dinner?"
"By all means, but why would you want that?"
Miss Park touched my hand.
"You are the only American man to have ever treated me with respect, and not to view me as a half-breed. I feel indebted to you and wish to show my appreciation."
"Miss Park, I hold no favor for you because of your heritage. My upbringing instilled respect for humankind. You're a delightful individual, and spending time with you is challenging."
The room at Miss Park's house in Nam Yang lacked the grandeur commonly associated with modern dwellings. Just a solitary, rectangular room, its walls and flooring made from a combination of dirt and cement, roof made from corrugated steel. A single charcoal stove completed its basic furnishings. Apart from the stove, the only other fixtures within the room were a sleeping mat and a wood cabinet lavishly adorned with black lacquer featuring inlays of fish and flowers, where she kept her belongings.
Miss Park appeared apprehensive as she placed a bowl containing rice and another dish layered with cubes of Spam onto the floor, right in front of us.
"I don't have resources to maintain meat freshness, so I employ canned meat from your PX. I hope you don't find it underwhelming."
The textured Spam chunks, doused in a spicy sauce, were exceptional. Surprised by my delight, I jokingly mentioned needing to tell my mom about this, to which she responded with a smile.
"Do you have a thoroughly loving mother who rears honest individuals?"
Praising Mom's warmth and kindness, I assured Miss Park she would likely be welcomed by her Stating she'd likely be appreciated, Miss Park laughed.
"Perhaps, but despite being cherished by the person who civilized you, you would probably disapprove of me since I'm not fully Korean."
"No, I said I like you for more than that."
The sky had darkened, prompting me to inform Miss Park it was soon time to head back to the base. She thanked me for the visit and hinted at preparing a meal if I so desired.
On the walk back, and for most of it, I mulled over this subject.
'Would my mom appreciate Miss Park as much as I do? Given her varied ancestry, she likely wouldn't disapprove of someone just because of her mixed heritage.
I wasn't overly optimistic about Dad, having served in the Pacific during WWII. His sentiments towards the Japanese may extend to Koreans, given their distinct Asian features."
Grateful for that time together, I made my way back to the base.
Words Matter
In due course, I came to a resolution that the situation at hand didn't significantly matter as they'd never be introduced to my loved one. By the time I was done with my military service, approximately six months away, I'd go back home and revert to the lifestyle I had prior to Korea. Upon graduating, I'd locate a girl, tie the knot, and move forward with my life. Korea would simply be a location for a 13-month stay. I'd cherish my memories yet would never feel the desire to return.
Miss Park consistently prepared our Sunday dinners during these two months, and I found myself clandestinely checking my watch every few minutes for the time to my rendezvous with her. She was a competent cook, despite the peculiarity of her recipes. I also appreciated her place as an escape from the perpetual commotion in the mess hall and barracks.
In the base, there were no designated areas where I could enjoy solitude to write home or simply read a book. The barracks were always stacked with guys blaring music or lounging around, guzzling alcohol and yapping. Instead, at Miss Park's abode, the atmosphere was tranquil, and we only engaged in conversation. The camaraderie with her was incredibly gratifying when contrasted to the typical interactions with soldiers.
The depth of our connection became more real when we reminisced on a Saturday when we opted for a trip to Seoul. We were waiting at Suwon for a bus to the city, and a Korean man scowled at Miss Park. After a while, he uttered something in her direction. When Miss Park responded it was evident she was irate. He made his way towards her aggressively.
I jumped between them and conveyed, "Tell him to step back or I'll deck him."
She advised him in Korean and it was obvious that she was vexed. The man didn't yield, and he yelled at her again. I repeated my instruction and then planned to step closer to him. He retreated, seemingly acknowledging that he might incur grave harm otherwise.
We strolled a few feet away from the throng of passengers awaiting the bus and I inquired as to the context of the man's rebuke. Her voice still cracked as she described his accusation:
"You don't need to know. It wasn't your business, but thank you for interceding."
I pulled her chin up to meet my gaze.
"Miss Park, I require knowledge of the situation. It appeared as if he was set to batter you. What exactly did he say?"
Tears brimmed in her eyes, and her top lip quivered.
"He insisted I was a sambok, effectively a half- bread whore associated with an unwise American soldier, elaborating that I had taken him for his money. I informed him I wasn't a whore and it wasn't any of his concern who I was associated with nor what my activity entailed. He asserted I should learn to act like a typical Korean woman, and I believe he intended to smack me until you positioned yourself to forestall him. I shared you indicated you'd detain him, prompting his departure."
Upon noticing the onlookers, I wrapped my arms around Miss Park and held her close. I had just acted out of an instinct to shield her, rather than deliberating the feasible consequences. As onlookers gathered, awaiting the bus, Miss Park wept on my chest.
Her parting words completely caught me off guard.
"Can we just return home? I'm not in a mood for Seoul today."
I remained photocopied into this paraphrased version, so did the headers, hyperlinks, and emphases from the original text. The essence of the text was merely reworded in an attempt to create a different impression, yet preserved the formatting. I didn't add any remarks to identify myself in the transcript.
After taking a taxi back to Nam Yang, we endured the cab driver's cursing as he navigated the potholes on the road. However, he couldn't help but smile when I generously tipped him, as it was equivalent to the cost of the ride. I escorted Miss Park to her quarters, struggling to find the right words to express my emotions. I decided to propose having dinner with her in the town to delay the inevitable goodbye.
She beamed at me. "You don't need to spend money on me by buying me dinner. You've already done so much by helping me."
My thoughts were not linear that night. I still wanted to tell her how I felt, even if it meant I might be left heartbroken once I returned home. I embraced her, planting a soft kiss on her forehead for comfort. "I'm not trying to give you a fancy meal. I just don't want to leave you."
She laughed, "I'll be here tomorrow, the day after, and the day after that. Why can't you accept that?"
I replied earnestly, struggling to find my voice, "I believe I love you."
She playfully tried to make excuses and referenced her role as the surrogate girlfriend. She mentioned how my father and mother might disapprove, reminding me of her possible intentions to escape her home for the allure of America. She jokingly claimed that I would soon forget her, as anyone would when given the opportunity to return to the States. I stopped her from continuing with another kiss.
She still had her eyes closed when we parted. I wrapped my arms around her once more. "Miss Park, I'm unsure how my parents will react, but I can't abandon you. If you don't cherish me with the same passion, I will leave - but it would only break my heart."
Her complexion changed to a bemused smirk. "I've been attempting to convince myself that our relationship couldn't work for the past three weeks. However, I'm still not convinced."
During a typical afternoon following my work shift, I hauled Army Regulations books for marriage approval from our supply room. Top, my company's superior, inquired about my actions, so I informed him. Top invited me to enter his office and close the door behind us.
"Eric, it's not unusual to develop feelings for someone you're apart from for a long period. She's here, and any other potential relationships are distant memories. Are you confident about your decision?"
I unhesitatingly confirmed my intentions.
"There are a few things you might not be aware of." Top paused for effect and continued, "Many of these ladies are willing to do whatever it takes to enter the United States. While I don't believe Miss Park is working under some pimp's control, there's always a risk of betrayal. Several club owners in town are connected with pimps in the States. They communicate frequently about foreign girls who perform in their clubs. Pimps are constantly seeking women willing to move to America, where they'll operate brothels. Club owners are poised to arrange such a trip for their employees."
I acknowledged my concerns in this regard.
"Have you spoken to your parents? What are their views?", he questioned.
I had not informed them about my plan to wed but had written to my mother about meeting a lovely Korean girl who made me enjoy her company. Though my mother assured me to do what feels right, my father was not too thrilled.
"Well, if your parents have been informed and you are confident, that should be enough. Allow me to share my experience. The processing of these marriages is meticulous and lengthy. First, the Criminal Investigation Division (CID) must background check her, her parents, and even grandparents to ensure no potential foreign government involvement or blackmail opportunities after her arrival in America. This is a lengthy process and involves substantial communication with Korean law enforcement. There's another purpose to this procedure: to safeguard impressionable soldiers from misinformed infatuation. With only a few months remaining in your tour, it's highly unlikely your application would be approved prior to your departure." We both sat there, each contemplating the scenario. My tour of duty had only five months remaining, and his words were sensible.
I sighed and looked at Top, who pulled out his wallet. His wallet contained a photograph of a woman, dressed in American attire, but her facial structure revealed her Korean origin. He looked at her picture fondly before placing it back in his wallet. "Like me, I didn't think my wife-to-be was involved with any ulterior motives. You might have to reconsider requesting a post in Korea and outlast your tour, my friend."
"My partner and I have been together since I was a private stationed in Camp Casey after the war. They worked at the PX at that time. Without my spouse, I might still be in the military. I chose to re-enlist to remain in Korea, and then continued to re-enlist because they enjoyed exploring different places. After this final deployment, we intend to retire to Florida. We had already bought a house there before I left, and they are preparing it now."
Senior enlisted officer Top approached.
"If you're certain about your decision, I can help you with the necessary paperwork for re-enlisting and marriage. It took me a while to complete the necessary forms, adding to our wait time."
I chose to sign on for another four years. It took the Army a fortnight after the initial tour ended to determine my location, ultimately sending me to Osan Air Base. My role no longer involved sitting at a desk; I now operated a radar console. Nonetheless, it wasn't an issue since this change made it possible to spend more time with Mi Cha, who became known as Mi Cha to me and Eric to her.
Re-enlisting enabled me to undergo an interview, resulting in a promotion to Specialist 5 when I passed it. Due to the shift towards a volunteer army, this elevation corresponded to a significant increase in salary. I had a new hut built in Osan, and soon after its completion, Mi Cha moved there from Nam Yang. We lived at the base more than off. Although she earned money from her job at the barbershop, she insisted on having her own source of income, fearing she would be seen as a burden.
Following nine months of waiting for clearance, the Army concluded Mi Cha was not a spy, lacked relationships determined to sabotage American lives, and had no criminal record. We tied the knot during a ceremony held at a Korean Methodist Church in Nam Yang. Mi Cha desired her friends from the orphanage to witness her wedding.
Regrettably, my parents couldn't attend because of the high cost. I promised them we'd have a traditional American wedding upon our return to the United States. Photographs of Mi Cha in her classic Korean wedding dress were dispatched to them so they could recognize their new daughter-in-law.
Spending an entire week in Nam Yang, we stayed in a hotel and did not plan a honeymoon. Mi Cha desired to become a wife and enjoy our time rather than going on vacation.
It's interesting to note that Mi Cha and I had not engaged in sexual activities before marriage. Although we experienced temptation, we were taught this was not permissible. We never engaged in such acts in public, as it was not culturally accepted. We spent the week after our marriage embracing and kissing each other. Our affectionate gestures, while private, allowed us to enjoy the physical bonds of our new marriage.
As soon as I closed the door behind us, Mi Cha wrapped her arms around my neck.
"Do you like me?" she inquired.
I joked, "I just married you. Why would I dislike you?"
"I am not as voluptuous as the American women," she stated, gesturing towards her chest.
"Mi Cha, if that trait were important to me, we wouldn't be standing here together."
Mi Cha smiled.
"Then maybe we shouldn't standing."
She wasn't endowed with large breasts. Mi Cha was not large in any aspect. What she was, was delicate, supple, and radiant. She was also highly responsive.
We were both inexperienced, so our initial attempts were clumsy; however, we soon found our rhythm. Mi Cha appreciated the intimate touch of kissing her nipples, while stroking her inner thighs brought her pleasure. I discovered fingering her tightness and the wetness of her inner lips and entry. Mi Cha urges me to enter her.
Although we weren't very adept, Mi Cha grew impatient. Our passionate moments provided me with an inestimable reward.
One moment, I was stroking her lips, and the next, Mi Cha was pulling me between her legs.
"I know it will be a bit awkward, but I'm prepared from you now," she whispered.
The men in the barracks joked about how relaxed the business women were. Mi Cha was so tight I was worried about really injuring her. I pushed in, felt her catch her breath, and then pulled back out slightly. Mi Cha grasped my butt and pulled, so I pushed in again a little harder.
She gasped, but refused to allow me to pull out.
"Do it quickly", she whispered. "It will then end."
She exclaimed when my penis penetrated through the tightness and into her depths, and she kept me there for several moments before whispering, "You can continue. It doesn't hurt that much."
Mi Cha didn't have an orgasm that night, but she didn't lie there idle. She continued kissing me and stroking my back and pulling on my butt to thrust my penis as deeply as possible within her. I didn't last long because I was trying to be as gentle as possible with her, but she would lift her hips to meet my thrusts. It didn't take me long to reach climax. I groaned when the first spurt dribbled inside Mi Cha, and then gasped at the second. After the third, Mi Cha kissed me once more and whispered, "Let's just stay like this for a while. It makes me happy."
Three months later, my period of service in Korea was concluded. We boarded a jet at Osan and flew to Seattle, then to Chicago, and then to Decatur. Mom and Dad welcomed us at the airport to take us home.
Mom cried and hugged me for several minutes before letting go and taking Mi Cha's hand.
"So you're my daughter-in-law?"
Mi Cha nodded.
"Eric has written so much about you. It's so nice to finally meet you. Come, meet my husband's dad."
Dad seemed extremely uncomfortable, but Mi Cha rectified that.
"Mr. Winslow, Eric said you don't like Japanese people. Neither do the Korean people. I was told the Japanese were atrocious to the Korean people during the war. We are happy that you defeated them."
I was a little apprehensive about what Dad would say when he met Mi Cha, but she managed to astonish him completely. I saw her smiling at him, and after a few moments, he started to smile back.
"I didn't fight in Korea, but I've heard about what the Japs did there."
Mi Cha touched his hand.
"I realise you didn't fight there, but if you had not won, they would still be there. Thank you."
Mi Cha rose up on her toes and kissed Dad on the cheek. He hesitated for a couple seconds, then embraced her. Mi Cha hugged him back.
Dad let Mi Cha go, then turned to Mom and was grinning.
"Mom, let's take our children home. I wish to get to know Mi Cha better, and I'm ready for that pot roast you've been preparing all day."
Unlike Top, I didn't continue in the Army after four years passed. I utilised the GI Bill and obtained myself an education. For the next thirty years, I planned the steel structure of buildings and then retired. In the course of it all, Mi Cha and I had two children. Jimmy graduated from university and now works for an architectural firm. Judy graduated from university too, but chose to be a mother instead of a teacher. Between the two of them, we had six grandkids.
We visited Korea a few times to enable Mi Cha to observe the friends she grew up with and the village of Nam Yang. At some point, the name was changed to Hwaseong, and it's no longer the serene little town we both remembered. It is now filled with industry and the road to Seoul is a well-paved highway like any in the US. My old Army base is still there, but it is no longer an Army base and most of the old buildings are gone.
I frequently reflect on that period of my life. I was young and uninformed about the world, and Korea was an enlightening experience for me about how fortunate Americans genuinely had it. Of course, now Korea isn't much different from the US. They have traffic jams, they have large supermarkets instead of small family-run grocery stores, and in general, the food is safe for anybody to consume.
Back then, farmers still had to perform all the work manually and used oxen to cultivate their fields and rice paddies. It was a difficult but peaceful way of life filled with traditions that I hope never become forgotten. Koreans are, and should be, proud of their history and of their customs, even if some of them seem a little strange to other individuals. Mi Cha still believes some of our US customs are a little bizarre, so it functions both ways.
Presently, Mi Cha can be found in the kitchen. Her mother taught her how to prepare American cuisine, and she's extremely skilled at it. However, from time to time, she prepares a pot of rice, creates her unique sauce, and adds a can of Spam. She claims she simply enjoys it. I also like it, but I know she prepares it for a different reason. It transports us both back to that tiny hut in Nam Yang. It's where I recognized Mi Cha was more than just a friend, and where she began to understand her desire to be with me. It's comforting to recollect such moments.
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