Era of Success, Episode 3
Sergeant Park Seok-cheol wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, unable to tear his eyes from the dud round, and said in a trembling voice.
"Fuck. I nearly died right after getting here."
"You're telling me."
It had been a dizzying situation where he might have ended up dead without accomplishing anything, just when he was finally trying to live life again, so he too put on the face of a man back from the dead.
"Let's get out of here first."
"Uh, yeah."
When the two had exited the trench and taken a few steps, the shell they had thought was a dud exploded behind them with a boom.
At the massive explosion, soldiers who had been emerging from cover thinking the bombardment was over flung themselves to the ground in surprise, and the two collapsed from the shockwave as dirt kicked up by the blast rained down over their bodies.
When Park Jong-il, who had briefly lost consciousness, came to again, he was at the company aid station.
"To think a shell exploded that close and you're perfectly fine without a scratch—you should know you're lucky."
"Yes, sir."
"That aside, you must have been quite the big shot back in Korea, huh? That tattoo on your chest is impressive."
"......!"
Though he had no major wounds, Park Jong-il looked down at his chest with a puzzled expression at the medic's words as she applied ointment to his bruised back, and was startled to see a tattoo engraved on the right side where his heart truly was.
There was a swirl-shaped tattoo inside a circle slightly smaller than a fist—something he was seeing for the first time himself.
No matter how hard he racked his memory, he had never gotten such a tattoo, not before his regression nor in the past.
He was agonizing over whether it might be related to his traveling back through time when the medic brought him back to reality with a light slap on his back.
Smack!
"All done, so head back to the barracks."
"Thank you."
Since the medic held the rank of corporal, higher than his own, Park Jong-il saluted, straightened his uniform, and exited the large aid station tent built with steel support frames.
Then Sergeant Park Seok-cheol, who had received treatment first and had been leaning against a parked truck, approached when he saw him.
"What did they say?"
"Just light bruising, so there's no need to go to the field hospital."
"I could've gone to Vung Tau instead of this jungle with nothing but Viet Cong and mosquitoes, and spent some enjoyable time with the nurse officers. What a shame."
Vung Tau, famous for its beautiful scenery, housed a Korean Army field hospital and a rest area.
"It's a shame to miss the gentle touch of the nurse officers, but it's still better than getting injured, isn't it?"
"True enough."
Sergeant Park cracked a smile, came up beside him, threw an arm around his shoulder, and spoke in a friendly voice.
"Jong-il."
"Yes?"
"I'm really grateful."
"What are you talking about, sir?"
"My veteran pride isn't much to speak of, but when the mortar round fell earlier, my body froze and I couldn't think at all, yet you grabbed me and ran to the trench. And when the dud exploded, you covered me with your body."
"Ah. Yes, sir."
It had been a purely instinctive, thoughtless move, so Park Jong-il scratched the back of his head somewhat sheepishly.
But Sergeant Park's expression turned serious as he expressed his gratitude.
"I owe you my life. If you ever have trouble from now on, tell me anything. Got it?"
"Yes, sir."
Since there was no harm in getting close with Sergeant Park, the de facto king of the platoon, Park Jong-il nodded and answered.
Come to think of it, he recalled that in his original memory, Sergeant Park Seok-cheol had died in the Viet Cong bombardment on the first day of their arrival at the company tactical base.
At the thought that he had changed history for the first time since regressing, Park Jong-il glanced at Sergeant Park's face, which was smiling without knowing anything, with a complicated gaze.
The platoon barracks had sandbags filled with earth stacked double on the walls and roof so they wouldn't collapse even if hit by shellfire, and three or four electric bulbs connected by wiring lit up the dim interior where almost no light came in.
When he entered with Sergeant Park, the platoon members who had arrived earlier and were resting after organizing their gear welcomed the two warmly.
"We were worried sick, but seeing you return right away, it seems you're fine?"
"Of course. Do you know who I am? I'm a tough son of Jeolla-do."
At that, Sergeant Park flexed one arm, and the platoon members burst into laughter with exclamations of "Wow."
Perhaps because they had been attacked immediately upon arrival and overcome the crisis together, the camaraderie among the platoon members seemed even stronger.
"Hey, newbie. Good thing you're safe too."
"Thank you, sir."
"That spot over there's yours, so go organize your gear."
"Yes, sir."
Jong-il went to the spot on the left side of the entrance, opened the duffel bag a platoon member had set down, took out his personal items, and organized them in his locker.
The soldiers who had gone through such an intense welcome ceremony were busy from the next day onward with perimeter guard duties and fortification work.
Making sandbags needed for position reinforcement while holding small folding entrenching tools under the sweltering sun was no ordinary hard labor.
"Goddammit! How much more of this goddamn digging do we have to do?"
At the words of Corporal Baek Seung-pil, who had enlisted after working as a shoeshine boy at Seoul Station, Sergeant Park wiped sweat with the towel around his neck and spoke.
"We need to make a hundred more, so quit complaining and start shoveling dirt."
"That many still left? At this rate, my back will give out before I even get into a gunfight with the Viet Cong."
"It's not like we're going to use them right away anyway."
"You never know. Maybe I'll pick up a pretty girl from a nearby village."
"You heard the company commander. If you let your lower half get the better of you, you might really end up dead."
To maintain harmonious relations with the local residents, the Korean Army Command in Vietnam strictly monitored and frequently educated young, hot-blooded soldiers to prevent them from causing incidents.
"Who says I'd force anyone?"
"Then if there's a good girl, would you formally marry her?"
At Jong-il's question as he scooped dirt into a bag nearby, Corporal Baek mumbled.
"Well, who knows......"
Recalling the children born between Koreans and local women during the Vietnam War, who would later be called Lai Dai Han and suffer, Jong-il spoke with a slight stern expression.
"Then don't go messing with an innocent Vietnamese girl only to create a situation you can't take responsibility for later, and just stay put."
"What!"
As Corporal Baek flared up in anger, Sergeant Park intervened to defuse the situation.
"Cut it out. You'll end up fighting at this rate."
"But Squad Leader, what he's saying is out of line."
"It was harsh, but he's not wrong."
"Squad Leader!"
"Private Park."
"Yes, sir."
"No matter what, you shouldn't speak like that to a senior. Apologize now."
Even without Sergeant Park's words, Jong-il felt he had overstepped a bit. He got up and bowed to the fuming Corporal Baek.
"That wasn't my intention. I'm sorry."
Now unable to get angrier, Corporal Baek glared at Jong-il once and spoke in a sharp voice.
"You watch yourself from now on!"
"Yes, sir."
With the argument settled, Sergeant Park addressed the platoon members.
"It's hot and hard, so we're all getting unnecessarily cranky. Let's take ten minutes and then get back to it."
"Sounds good, sir."
"I was wondering why you weren't saying that."
"Goodness."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the platoon members, as if they had been waiting, set down their shovels and sandbags and plopped down on the dirt.
Sergeant Park cracked a smile at the sight and spoke to Jong-il.
"Private Park."
"Yes, sir."
"You come with me to get water for the guys to drink."
"Understood, sir."
It was hard, but this was the kind of task the youngest in the platoon had to do, so Jong-il got up quickly without complaint.
He grabbed the empty water containers, and after they had walked for some distance, Sergeant Park, walking ahead, spoke in a gentle voice.
"Hey, earning dollars is really tough, huh?"
Jong-il made a puzzled expression for a moment, wondering what he meant, but soon nodded and answered.
"Yes, sir."
"Earlier, you weren't acting like yourself. You were rash."
"I'm sorry, sir."
"Knowing is enough. That aside, you haven't been sleeping well lately. Is something hurting?"
"No, sir."
He shook his head unconsciously, but that seemed even more suspicious, so Sergeant Park scrutinized Jong-il's face carefully.
"Don't lie. Yesterday too, you suddenly sat up in your sleep and just spaced out."
"......You knew, sir?"
"Yeah. It was so hot yesterday that I was tossing and turning too."
Having exerted so much physical energy during the day, he should have been exhausted enough to pass right out, but Vietnam's extreme heat was truly beyond imagination, making it hard to fall asleep even while lying down.
Still, telling himself he had to sleep, he was lying there with his eyes closed when suddenly Jong-il sprang up as if electrocuted, breathing heavily.
He had peeked through half-closed eyes and noticed Jong-il's back drenched in sweat even in the darkness, wondering if he should say something, but sensing that Jong-il would soon lie back down, Sergeant Park pretended not to notice.
"If you have any worries, I can talk with you anytime."
"No, sir. I don't really have any worries......"
"Then what's the problem?"
At Sergeant Park's genuinely concerned demeanor, Jong-il recalled last night's events inwardly.
Last night had been terribly hot.
He had thought he was getting somewhat used to the heat by now, but thanks to the unusually high humidity that clung stickily and the flying insects tickling his ears, he had drifted off and woken up repeatedly.
Then, when he finally fell into a deep sleep after such shallow rest, he saw that person.
It was an old man with long white hair and a face full of wrinkles, but his eyes held the wisdom unique to one who had lived long.
Like Santa Claus from a picture book, he had a long, splendid white beard reaching below his chest, and his clothes were a tunic with voluminous sleeves and a wide hem, making Jong-il think this must be what a wizard from a fantasy movie looked like.
Unsure whether this was a dream or reality, Jong-il was shifting awkwardly when the old man spoke to him first.
"Don't just stand there like that. Come and sit."
When the old man waved his hand through the air, a round table and chairs appeared in the previously empty space.
As Jong-il sat down carefully in wonder, the old man stroked his curly beard and revealed his name.
"My name is Venos. You may be hearing it for the first time, but in the world I originally come from, it is quite a famous name."
Having broken the ice in that manner, the old man continued in a monotonous tone, as if telling old tales to a grandchild.
There had been several kingdoms, and various studies and technologies had developed during a long war, but in the world where the old man lived, something called 'magic' existed.
They were capable of using mana, the energy dispersed in the air, to part seas, summon lightning, and create flames, but only an extremely small number of people could actually wield such power freely.
"Mana is a fickle thing. Those without talent cannot even sense its existence, and even if one is born with such talent, it takes decades of training to wield it as one pleases. And by the time you finally reach the desired realm, your body has already grown old, leaving nothing but emptiness."
So the old man said he had set one goal.
No matter how much miraculous magic one could use, matters related to human life and death were the domain of gods, so it was impossible to extend one's lifespan further or restore an already aged body to youth.
If that was the case, then he would at least test how far he could go before he died.
Having made that resolution, the old man mobilized all the knowledge he had researched until then to create something that could be called the culmination of his life.