Air Defense Artillery, Part Two
July 24, 2008
There was a curfew for the armed forces in South Korea. Eleven on weekdays, and one in the morning on Fridays and Saturdays. Being late for curfew meant an Article 15, which is similar to a felony under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, the legal system we answered to. Suwon was actually a South Korean Air Force base, with a US Army installation on its premises. The gates were guarded by South Korean soldiers, and they liked us about as much as a bad cold. If you were late, extenuating circumstances - maybe you saved a puppy on your way home - they didn't give a damn.
It was rare that a weekend arrived with the three of us all off duty, and we were quick to take advantage of it. It was a tropical summer Friday night, and a couple of hundred bored soldiers were getting drunk and stirring about, deciding what to do with the evening. We were among them. Patrick wanted to go to Osan and smile at Air Force girls, I didn't think that was too bad an idea. DB didn't care what we did, he had been drinking since final formation at five 'o clock. The base gate was down a little cow path from the barracks, onto a main road, and through fifty yards of tunnel that opened into a security station. The security station was a square of tall walls, some hundred yards apart, with a gate on one wall that dumped you into downtown Suwon, and a gate on the opposite wall that was always open, and led into the tunnel back towards the road and eventually the barracks. A half dozen armed guards milled about the general area. They didn't pay anybody any mind in the daytime. We all changed into civilian clothes, and headed towards the security station. Walking casually, we laughed and smoked and shared a small bottle of whiskey which we tossed when we reached the end of the tunnel. When we reached the gate, the guards were talking. One of them nodded at us without skipping a beat in his conversation, and let us out the gate.
The streets were crowded. A line of twenty or more cabs stretched away from the gate, waiting to move soldiers to alcohol and women. Children ran about, old ladies sold assorted meats on a stick, and traffic bumbled along bumper to bumper at a crawling pace, in a cloud of exhaust, honking and yelling. We got in the first cab.
I told the driver to take us to Osan Air Base. I told him in sharp, boxy english. The driver nodded without smiling and stepped on the gas, joining the slow procession that throbbed outwards towards bigger towns and better bars. DB produced another bottle of whiskey that he had put in his pocket. He drank down two swallows, and handed it to me.
Traffic in town was slow. The air smelled like roasted meat, stagnant water and fish markets. When we got to the highway, the driver sped up unnervingly and wind billowed in through the open windows. The joints and abrasions in the road translated up through the cab's suspension; bumps and jostles ran together into long swooping curves. The cab seemed to swell and dip at regular lazy intervals. It was too hot to roll up the windows and we had stopped talking because of the wind. All three of us were in the back seat. I drank some whiskey and then handed the little bottle to Patrick. Then, I fell asleep.
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