“Hwang Chansung?”

“Sir!”

“Lee Junho?”

“Sir!”

“Jang Wooyoung?”

“Sir!”

“Appointing Hwang Chansung as captain, you three are now in charge of company 31 at the Nakdong River base. Lee Junho?”

“Yes sir”

“Record all the names of the student-soldiers. And Jang Wooyoung, you’re in charge of arms distribution. Salute!”

“Chung-Ui!  [Loyalty]”

Then he was gone.

Hwang Chansung, graduated from Korean Art High School in 1949, was captain of the soccer team and part of the mathematics club. Now it’s Hwang Chansung, captain of the 31^st company and in charge of defence at Nakdong River, the strategic point of the current Korean War. If the North Koreans get this vantage point then Busan would be next which means either the country surrenders or gets pushed over into the ocean. With the way Major General Park was constantly drilling ‘If you retreat, I’ll kill you myself’ like a mantra into them, they’ll probably take their chances and swim to China than give in.

“No, ‘Killing Commie Dogs’ isn’t a proper name you pabo! Act your age!” growled Junho, upset that his position of authority was not being taken seriously.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s actually ‘Junho is a brown nose’!”, and like any proper delinquent, Ok Taecyeon and his gang made a dash for it before Junho’s flying clipboard managed to get him square in the forehead. Even with a war going on, he still managed to get the last laugh.

“Attention!”

“Ya! Chansung hyung, what are you giving orders to us for? You’re still one of us!” whined Nichkhun. Not particularly happy that the position of leader was handed over to Chansung and not him. It’s not like they even had a proper vote or anything.

“You graduated last year, I’m still in school but repeated twice so technically I’m older!” scoffed Ok Taecyeon, earning approving comments from his mindless drones.

A heavy sigh escaped his chapped lips as he combed his hand through his mud-caked hair then ran his fingers over the drying scabs on his face, flaking away the dried blood then started writing a mental letter to his mother. ‘Mum, I hope you’re doing fine in Daegu. Did you bury the Kimchi pots in the garden before you left? I hope you’re not straining your voice too much…’

“Let’s kill some commies! Wooyoung hyung, where are the guns?” a too eager student-solider yelled as he made a dash outside to look for the weapons.

‘…how am I going to get a group of 71 adolescence boys in order? They’re still children! Half of them probably think the bullets are of rubber and expect their Umma to come and patch them up if they were to get scratched! They’re not ready. Nor am I to take responsibility’.

Hours after getting order to the company, going over basic weapon training and setting up their base in P’ohang-dong Girl’s Middle School -the strategic point for safeguarding the Nakdong River- night-shifts were appointed as the rest settled in for the night.

“Hyung! What did you write?”

Chansung looked up to see Kim Minjun, the scrawny 17 year old from Daegu. He said he was 18 but his weak frame and boyish stance wouldn’t fool anyone.

“Yet the bastards at registrations let you sign up”, muttered Chansung to himself.

“Your Will? Have you started it?”

“This isn’t some essay for Hangul class Minjun. I’m not writing one”

“Why Hyung?”

“Wills are for people who die”

“Okay I won’t either!”

The obedient follower. So far Chansung’s found three other stereotypes in his platoon: the bully/class clown Ok Taecyeon, the brown nose Lee Junho and the pretty boy Nichkhun. Everyone fits into one typical cliché or another. Because that is all it is to them: High school. A life-sized game of ‘toy-soldiers’.

He got up, made his way to the front of the makeshift camp in the classroom where the literature students were remaking a scene of ‘Running Man’ theatre. The boys decided to recreate the scene where Laura from the U.S first meets Kim Soo Hyun, although Chan Sung doesn’t remember ‘a tramp from North Korea’ being part of the original screenplay.

“Attention!”

“Aw Hyung! It was getting to the good part!”

“Just five more minutes please!”

His strong resolve wavered because he couldn’t believe their nonchalant reactions to direct orders. He was about to scold them when suddenly Bang Mir barged into the classroom, out of breath but with a message.

“They’re here!”

Like a switch has been flicked, they turned from ‘students’ to ‘soldiers’ in the time it took them to strap on their weapons and make their way outside to take position behind the sandbag pillars on the east of the school building. Their orders were ‘shoot to kill’; however none of them looked like they were ready.

‘This is my first call on duty Umma. They’re not ready. Nor am I to take responsibility’.

Their red sashes were visible from a hundred feet away thanks to the bright moon, illuminating the only thing that was important. Like red to a bull, their armbands simply meant ‘charge’.

“On my signal”

The North Koreans approached the pathway to the school leading up to the sandbag pillars, appearing to be unattended to the enemy’s eyes but behind them were the undertrained, underarmed students-soldiers, waiting for their chance to attack. 

“Steady”

Lending a helping hand, the wind came to a halt and the only sounds that could be heard were the crunching of standardised army boots on the gravel of the school. ‘Our ears are our eyes’ because as Major Park said, you need to develop a kinaesthetic feel to your surroundings. A natural response to your environment.

“Fire!!!”

During the ‘Running Man’ stage-play, their fight scenes would go on for almost half an hour, with special spotlights for every person that was shot. But this isn’t theatre. All that were shot hit the floor before the Kalashnikov finished its recoil. The moon, acting as an ironic spotlight, showed that this was instant, brutal and real.

One, two, three, four, more bodies hit the floor as one North Korean made a sneaky escape during the chaos of all the firing. Chansung noticed him making a run for the forest next to the school and ordered his men to hold their ground while he followed him.

The burning in his lungs and the ache in his legs weren’t enough to slow down the adrenaline rush as he pushed on until he caught up to the retreating solider. A pounce from behind and he was easily wrestled to the ground. Chansung straddled his waist to keep him from escaping and aimed his firearm to his forehead. The look of pure horror on his face, the slobbering tears and his soft call for his mother faltered his resolve for a fraction of a second before the trigger was pulled.

He was a student as well. Maybe no older than Kim Minjun. They say in the last moments of life, people show you who they really are. He was just a boy; caught up in the war just like the rest of them. He was no different from them, he was just following orders. ‘Umma, we’re not ready for this. I’m not ready to take responsibility. I don’t want to be here’. Tonight was the first night in years that Hwang Chansung, captain of the 31^st company, cried himself to sleep.