Chapter 3 · 12 min

Chapter 3

The unit I had been assigned to in my previous life: the Capital Corps 1175th Engineer Group, Bakdal Unit. Subordinate 155th Battalion.

The upside was a loose service number, so barracks life was easy and no one touched you.

The downside was that the unit had been in use for a long time, and from the barracks on, every facility was worn out.

So it was hot in summer, cold in winter, and the inconveniences of daily life were more than one or two.

And the training was brutal.

Especially when I went in, it was 9/11, the Second Battle of Yeonpyeong, the Korea-Japan World Cup — alerts went up constantly, and the training intensity was no joke.

The yearly guerrilla training and cold-weather training were the baseline, plus the ROK-US combined exercises, the battalion tactical evaluation, Ulchi-Focus Lens, Hoguk training, and the engineer branch specialty intensives that broke out at any time.

Even in summer we had to go out on civil support to typhoon-hit areas and repair buildings.

Recalling army life in the previous life, all I remember is training and work without a single day of rest.

Haul around bridge girders and crossbeams of 250 to 280 kilograms and your back does not last.

No wonder the disc went out. It was a wonder it held at all.

So this time I have no intention of going there.

My goal is only one.

Assistant instructor at the Army Engineer School.

This post is the sweetest billet every engineer in the army knows.

You are not dragged into mindless hard labor like a field unit, and you do not go out for guerrilla or cold-weather training.

That time is spent training the cadre.

On top of that, it was a post where you could take apart and get a taste of the hundreds of training machines scattered around the engineer school.

Naturally, being such a sweet spot, the competition was fierce.

But this was not a post you could reach just by having connections.

The standard for picking assistant instructors was character and skill alone.

Each class drew the top scorers from among hundreds of trainees, and if there was no one who fit the conditions they did not pick anyone at all and passed the class over — a proud post.

They even looked into family circumstances for the review.

Coming from a single-father or single-mother home, or being an orphan, did not bar you from being an assistant instructor, but the selection conditions were strict enough that it was clearly a factor for points off.

And the ones who wielded the strongest influence here were precisely those instructors.

Only with an instructor's recommendation could you become a candidate.

So I threw myself into the training tenaciously enough that an instructor, looking at me, would think, 'That bastard has to be made an assistant instructor, no question.'

"Trainee number 12, Han Jeong-su! First to finish the run!"

Every morning run I felt I would die for lack of breath, but I ran desperately, always trying for first.

During equipment practice I stole the instructors' souls with handwork that put a ten-year operator to shame, and on breaks I wiped the grease off the training machines and even went through the motions of servicing them on my own.

"Trainee Han Jeong-su. How do you know a filter is clogged just from the engine sound?"

"I handled machines a bit out in society! If you only give me the chance, I want to stay at this school and become an assistant instructor who raises the juniors well!"

A bluff.

A clogged filter blows black smoke out the exhaust, and that was all I had said it for.

At my blatant, confident appeal the instructors gave hollow laughs, but their eyes glittered.

That is how life in society works.

Inflate the small things, say you can do what you cannot, and the one who handles it on his own is the one who catches the eye — and if he appeals actively on top of that, unless he is truly unlikeable, he is bound to be given a chance.

I used that psychology and promoted myself aggressively.

* * *

Second-half training at the Army Engineer School.

The training that ran for six weeks according to the detailed specialty assigned was, before I knew it, nearing its end.

This point, one or two weeks left until completion, was also the period when the trainees' blood ran driest.

Because the 'unit assignment' that would decide the fate of the remaining twenty-three months and two weeks was made at this time.

The training commander's office at the Engineer School.

The training commander, major's insignia, sitting at his desk and scanning documents, pushed his glasses up and asked the chief instructor.

"Tomorrow is the Army Headquarters central network lottery, isn't it? Before that, did you set aside the list of personnel to keep as assistant instructors at our school?"

"Yes! Interviews and our own evaluation are done, and we're ready."

The chief instructor held out the documents he had prepared in advance and answered.

"Physical, education, character, equipment handling — comprehensive evaluation, and we narrowed it to three. This class has quite a few talents."

"Oh, three who fit the conditions? Let me see······."

The training commander's gaze stayed on the first page of the documents.

Soon his brow furrowed slightly.

"Number 12, Han Jeong-su? Why are this one's scores like this? Payloader perfect, forklift perfect, excavator special grade? His handling is rated higher than our own instructors. This isn't a typo?"

The chief instructor cleared his throat and answered seriously.

"Not a typo. This is the first monster like this I've seen too. The form of his swing, the touch with the equipment — absolutely not a beginner. Skilled enough that you might think he has been laboring since he was born. On top of that, physical evaluation is an overwhelming first, and he has machine maintenance ability too. Popular among his cohort, and a good temperament. Above all, at the interview he was so eager he all but sang that he wanted to be an assistant instructor."

"Huh, really? We can't pass a man like this to a random number draw and pull him off to some field unit. Take him off the network list, no question, and hold him at our school."

* * *

And so, the Friday of fate.

A suffocating tension hung among the trainees gathered in the auditorium.

Unit assignment proceeds by a one hundred percent random computer draw, unrelated to personal preference or training scores.

The chief instructor on the platform took the microphone.

"As of this hour, the first computer sort for unit assignment begins. To block corruption related to unit placement at the source, a trainee representative will come up and press the random-input button himself. Representative, to the platform."

Gulp.

The sound of swallowing came from here and there.

The trainee representative went forward and gripped the mouse with a trembling hand.

Click!

The moment the button was pressed, on the large screen thrown up by the beam projector, a random program compiling the T/O of every army unit from the front to the rear began to spin.

'Please, anywhere but the front······.'

Earnest enough, in its way.

I had made every appeal I could to be selected as an assistant instructor, but I sweated at the thought that by some administrative error my name might have been mixed into that merciless roulette.

'Assistant instructor! Assistant instructor! Assistant instructor! Assistant instructooor!!'

[Computer draw complete]

Results poured onto the screen.

Assistant instructors and instructors walked around with the printed lists, spreading the results.

But no matter how I scanned the screen, no first-sort unit name floated in front of my name.

It was blank.

Toward the murmuring trainees, the chief instructor cleared his throat and settled the mood.

"Attention! The first assignment to field units by computer draw is finished. Those named will have their final battalion decided by a second sort when they transfer in. Now, last."

The chief instructor folded the list and lifted the corner of his mouth slightly.

"Naming the personnel drawn for assistant instructor at this school, excluded in advance from the computer-draw list."

In an instant the auditorium went quiet as a dead mouse.

The object of every trainee's envy, the sweetest billet.

Soon the chief instructor's heavy voice rang through the auditorium.

"Number 48, Kim Tae-hun. Number 102, Park Sang-cheol."

And.

"Number 12, Han Jeong-su. The above three need not pack to go to a field unit. From here on you will carry out your duty as assistant instructors of our Army Engineer School."

"Private! Han! Jeong! Su! Understood!"

I called out my rank and name in a ringing voice and cheered inwardly.

'I did it!'

For the remaining twenty-three months and two weeks of army life, the foundation was laid to thoroughly drain the engineer school's teaching and build the skills needed for Australia.

* * *

"Trainee number 14! You aren't easing the grip on that steering lever! Are you digging a trench right now, or digging your own grave!?"

At my ringing, by-the-book bark, the twenty-year-old trainee in the operator's seat went pale and froze.

Shoulders hunched tight, flustered hands gripping the lever, not knowing what to do.

I, red assistant-instructor cap pulled low, glaring with a sharp eye, soon snorted a laugh and took the force out of my voice.

"Hey, you. Do you squeeze that hard and stupid even when you go to the bathroom and grab your little guy?"

"······Sir? Ah, no, sir!"

"These lumps of iron move smooth only if you handle them gently. Relax, give the wrist a snap, ride the rhythm. Got it?"

At my ajusshi joke, a puff of laughter broke at the mouths of the frozen trainees.

"Try again. Gentle, soft, like touching your girlfriend's chest! You bastard! You don't have a girlfriend! Keep that up and you'll burst every chest you touch!"

"Trainee number 14! I'll... I'll try again! And I do have a girlfriend!"

"Puahahaha!"

The training ground becomes a sea of laughter.

And after that, you could see the handling soften at a glance.

Whirr — clank.

Han Jeong-su, heavy-equipment assistant instructor at the Army Engineer School.

Six months since becoming an assistant instructor, but my name was already known on the training field.

Knowing well how dangerous a site is, I was a razor by-the-book assistant instructor during training, and ordinarily I threw the odd off-color joke and kept a not-bad relationship with the trainees.

"What are you doing, Lieutenant? So you'll be putting in work tonight? Hard. Hard!"

That was no different for enlisted or cadre.

In a pack of men in their prime, there was no cheat key for loosening the mood like a dirty joke.

Thanks to that, the trainees feared me and still followed me inwardly like a fun older brother.

Across the whole engineer school, there was no one who disliked me.

Four in the afternoon.

The training day ended and equipment maintenance time arrived.

An ordinary assistant instructor would roughly wipe the exterior with an oily rag and go smoke, but I rather lit up at this hour and went to where they did depot-level maintenance.

To learn about equipment maintenance and repair.

I tucked a cold can of coffee, just bought, into my pocket and ran to the equipment battalion's maintenance section.

"Aigo, MacGyver Warrant Officer of the Engineer School! That sweat-soaked maintenance uniform fits you to death today!"

"Aigu, that sly snake is here again. Hey, Assistant Han. Why are you here again!"

The maintenance officer of the equipment battalion, a warrant officer, gave a hollow laugh every time he saw me, but he did not look displeased.

I slipped the can of coffee into his hand and clung on, agreeable to the point of servility.

"Come on. Yesterday I helped a lot with the packing on number 3 payloader's hydraulic pump, didn't I. Today teach me the tip for catching an excavator engine oil leak. I'm your top disciple again, aren't I."

"Look at this. Can't even talk straight. Come here."

And he makes room beside him.

"But why is this bastard crazier for maintenance than for training? You going to open a repair shop when you get out?"

The warrant officer asked.

"Come on. I told you I'm not. When I discharge I'm going to Australia on a working holiday."

"What? Working holiday? What's that? Holiday is a day off, isn't it? Working is work? A working day off?"

I gave a short laugh and answered him.

"In Australia you learn English, and you work, and you make money, that's what it is."

"Oh. Really? You make a lot of money if you go?"

I indicated the machines with a look.

"With skills like these, you make a lot of money."

"Then should I quit being a warrant officer and go there too?"

"Come on. Don't say what you don't mean. Is a warrant officer some ordinary rank? Nearly on par with a star."

"Heh heh heh. The brat knows a thing or two."

The warrant officer, laughing, picked up a monkey wrench and passed on real maintenance know-how in earnest.

This was experience you truly could not buy with money.

Then, wiping his oil-stained hands, he casually tapped my shoulder.

"Hey, Assistant Han. Later, don't discharge — just pin on specialist sergeant. Put a maintenance section chief under me and a real ace will come out of it."

"Come on, Warrant Officer. I told you I'm really going to Australia to ride kangaroos and play."

"This brat, always blowing smoke!"

I took it as a joke and still listened hard to the lesson.

This place was heaven.

Not a joke — I had already taken countless certificates, from forklift to excavator, dozer, crane, motor grader, and I was stacking my skills one by one, from a large-vehicle license to heavy-equipment repair.

What would cost millions of won outside, I was doing entirely for free.

If this is not heaven, where is.

That was not all.

The scene in the barracks after evening mess was peaceful beyond measure.

Even in the assistant instructors' barracks, ranks like corporal and sergeant plainly existed, but absurdity — catching military discipline, tormenting juniors — was not there at all.

From the start, at the assistant-instructor selection interview, the instructors had filtered out on their own anyone with a crooked or twisted character.

An atmosphere of respecting one another, and of thoroughly guaranteeing personal time once each man's day was done.

Ten at night.

Lights-out passed, and I applied for late light and sat in a corner of the lounge.

A thick English conversation book under the stand light.

"Chippie: carpenter, Sparky: electrician, WHS / OHS: workplace health and safety."

I looked the terms up in a dictionary and memorized hard the ones needed in Australia.

A twenty-year-old's fresh brain soaked up English like a sponge.

After studying like that for about an hour, I closed the notebook and opened the very last page.

There, written, was a top secret of my own that I could show to no one.

'2002 Korea-Japan World Cup'

Baguette vs Dakar 0: 1

Tiger vs K-9 2: 0

Tiger vs Trump 1: 1

Now it was time to raise the seed money I would use in Australia.