June, 27th. 1987.
Corporal Ryon Yong Sik, ROK 3rd Infantry Batallion.
Head of column.
An RPG round screamed across the lush green of a rice field, smacking into the side of an enraged American M2 Bradley with a dull metallic thud. The potentially fatal projectile, made impotent by some obvious defect, bounced away and splashed into the soggy soil just off the road.
Corporal Ryon Yong Sik peered away from the sights of his M16A1 to admire the minature metal American football of death, as it stuck proudly from the mud a few inches from his face. If he hadn't of gone without sleep for the past three days, he may have flinched. Instead he shrugged, and peered back down the iron sights of his weapon.
The tree line a thousand yards ahead was alive with the muzzle flashes of what Ryon supposed was a whole platoon of his northern countrymen. The American Bradley behind him thundered its main gun in their direction, obviously angered by what could have been a killing blow from an anti-tank team. Streams of thick orange tracer fire tore into the tree line, felling trees and uprooting shrubbery.
"We've gotta move out before they fuck us from every which way," an American lieutenant yelled from nearby, temporarily stealing Ryon's attention. "First Platoon, on me, lets chase those fuckers into the ground!"
Ryon understood English well enough, but his exhausted brain and shattered nerves delayed him from realising that as of half an hour ago, he was very much apart of this American lieutenant's First Platoon. Things had gotten so bad in the last twenty-four hours that neither his comrades or the Americans had enough men, skills and munitions to float their own fully combat effective units. Ryon remembered a few other platoons in the same situation as his, although they were all led by Americans.
"You, you and you," the lieutenant bellowed, pointing an angry finger at Ryon and two of his Korean comrades who were lying low alongside him. "This is your country, and it's about fucking time you fought for it!"
Ryon looked up at the man, even as the deafening roar of the Bradley's continued barrage on the tree line numbed his senses and shifted the mud beneath his belly. The American was young with a stocky build - a stark contrast to Ryon's lanky and gaunt form. Like most of the Americans Ryon had encountered, the lieutenant came across as a Clint Eastwood type; all bravado and red faced heroism.
"Yes sir," Ryon managed to say. His two comrades echoed him, albeit with a lesser grasp of proper English pronunciations.
"You got a watch?" The lieutenant asked, kneeling down besides Ryon.
"No sir."
"Shit son, no watch?" The lieutenant said mockingly but without the malice. "Forget it, I assume you fellahs can count to sixty?"
"Yes sir."
"Well now aint that a luxury?" The lieutenant chuckled, almost maniacally. Ryon sensed the man was perhaps breaking under the strain. "Okay, you zippos listen up. I want you to count to sixty, and then I want all three of you to run at that tree line. Understood?"
"Yes sir."
The lieutenant snorted, "you little guys don't say much huh?"
"No sir."
This time, the young stocky lieutenant just shook his head and stood to full height, even as rifle rounds whizzed by him. "We're all gonna run over 'em like a steam roller," he shouted, waving a hand towards a gathering of kneeling U.S soldiers by the roadside. "You guys stick with us, and don't fucking think of staying behind."
The lieutenant moved off swiftly, oblivious to the incoming small arms fire that the Bradley had failed to silence. Ryon saw him hop on top of the bulky American fighting vehicle, and knock on the turret's hatch. Another American soldier poked his head out.
"You got comms?" Ryon heard the lieutenant yell over the growing din of battle. The soldier half submerged in the Bradley's turret nodded fiercely. "Get those mortar carriers to smoke that tree line, we're going in!"
Ryon started counting the seconds.
Corporal Ryon Yong Sik, ROK 3rd Infantry Batallion.
Head of column.
An RPG round screamed across the lush green of a rice field, smacking into the side of an enraged American M2 Bradley with a dull metallic thud. The potentially fatal projectile, made impotent by some obvious defect, bounced away and splashed into the soggy soil just off the road.
Corporal Ryon Yong Sik peered away from the sights of his M16A1 to admire the minature metal American football of death, as it stuck proudly from the mud a few inches from his face. If he hadn't of gone without sleep for the past three days, he may have flinched. Instead he shrugged, and peered back down the iron sights of his weapon.
The tree line a thousand yards ahead was alive with the muzzle flashes of what Ryon supposed was a whole platoon of his northern countrymen. The American Bradley behind him thundered its main gun in their direction, obviously angered by what could have been a killing blow from an anti-tank team. Streams of thick orange tracer fire tore into the tree line, felling trees and uprooting shrubbery.
"We've gotta move out before they fuck us from every which way," an American lieutenant yelled from nearby, temporarily stealing Ryon's attention. "First Platoon, on me, lets chase those fuckers into the ground!"
Ryon understood English well enough, but his exhausted brain and shattered nerves delayed him from realising that as of half an hour ago, he was very much apart of this American lieutenant's First Platoon. Things had gotten so bad in the last twenty-four hours that neither his comrades or the Americans had enough men, skills and munitions to float their own fully combat effective units. Ryon remembered a few other platoons in the same situation as his, although they were all led by Americans.
"You, you and you," the lieutenant bellowed, pointing an angry finger at Ryon and two of his Korean comrades who were lying low alongside him. "This is your country, and it's about fucking time you fought for it!"
Ryon looked up at the man, even as the deafening roar of the Bradley's continued barrage on the tree line numbed his senses and shifted the mud beneath his belly. The American was young with a stocky build - a stark contrast to Ryon's lanky and gaunt form. Like most of the Americans Ryon had encountered, the lieutenant came across as a Clint Eastwood type; all bravado and red faced heroism.
"Yes sir," Ryon managed to say. His two comrades echoed him, albeit with a lesser grasp of proper English pronunciations.
"You got a watch?" The lieutenant asked, kneeling down besides Ryon.
"No sir."
"Shit son, no watch?" The lieutenant said mockingly but without the malice. "Forget it, I assume you fellahs can count to sixty?"
"Yes sir."
"Well now aint that a luxury?" The lieutenant chuckled, almost maniacally. Ryon sensed the man was perhaps breaking under the strain. "Okay, you zippos listen up. I want you to count to sixty, and then I want all three of you to run at that tree line. Understood?"
"Yes sir."
The lieutenant snorted, "you little guys don't say much huh?"
"No sir."
This time, the young stocky lieutenant just shook his head and stood to full height, even as rifle rounds whizzed by him. "We're all gonna run over 'em like a steam roller," he shouted, waving a hand towards a gathering of kneeling U.S soldiers by the roadside. "You guys stick with us, and don't fucking think of staying behind."
The lieutenant moved off swiftly, oblivious to the incoming small arms fire that the Bradley had failed to silence. Ryon saw him hop on top of the bulky American fighting vehicle, and knock on the turret's hatch. Another American soldier poked his head out.
"You got comms?" Ryon heard the lieutenant yell over the growing din of battle. The soldier half submerged in the Bradley's turret nodded fiercely. "Get those mortar carriers to smoke that tree line, we're going in!"
Ryon started counting the seconds.