buzzer sounded, and Captain Prevault pushed through the door. For a moment I felt I was back in my element: an administrative office with three desks, a typewriter on a table, a water cooler, a short row of wooden filing cabinets, and papers stacked everywhere. Overhead, fluorescent bulbs glowed.
The man who let us in was young, not much older than a teenager, and he wore a white tunic and matching pants. His open-toed sandals made him look somewhat less than professional. He bowed deeply to Captain Prevault.
“I called for Doctor Hwang,” she said. “He should be expecting us.”
I’m not sure if the young man understood. His face remained blank, but he turned abruptly and started to walk away. Captain Prevault followed, as did I.
The place was quiet. We were obviously outside of their regular duty hours, and only a skeleton crew would handle the night shift. As our feet clattered on tile corridors, I started to realize this place wasbigger than it looked from outside. We turned right and then left and climbed a short flight of stairs until we stood in front of a very narrow elevator. I’d seen them before in downtown Seoul, appearing as if they were squeezed into a building as an afterthought or purposely made tiny to save money. The young man pressed the button and the door slid open a few feet. The three of us stepped into the elevator, crammed together tightly, each of us staring in a different direction so as not to wash our fellow passengers with hot breath.
Our floor said six, and the young man pressed the button for two. The little elevator shuddered and descended into the bowels of Bukhan Mountain. I felt as if I were in a coffin. The elevator wheezed and moved down fitfully. Finally, it slowed, then shuddered, and the narrow doors slid open. Captain Prevault got off first. I tried to wait for the white-smocked technician, but he insisted I precede him.
We stood in a smooth walled cubicle with a single bulb glowing above us. The bulb was incased in an iron cage. There was nothing here that could be broken, or used as a weapon.
Brusquely, the technician hurried down a long corridor. I was expecting “tiger cages” like I’d seen pictures of at the Long Binh Jail in Vietnam or rock-hewn cells like I’d seen before in the Korean “monkey houses.” Instead, the technician led us through a double door into a spacious lawn with wrought iron chairs and matching round tables. Beyond that, a gentle slope dropped off into a valley lined with narrow walkways that led to stands of willow trees and small tile-roofed buildings adorned with bulbs blinking merrily in the brisk autumn air. On the far side of the valley, about three quarters of a mile away, the sister peak of Bukhan Mountain rose sharply, its jagged silhouette illuminated now by a low-hanging moon. To the right and to the left, the valley was similarly walled off.
Captain Prevault leaned close to me. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It’s like a bowl, in the center of the mountains.”
“Yes, a safe place for patients to recover. I wish Eighth Army had a similar facility.”
“What
does
Eighth Army have?”
“The stockade in Pupyong.”
The silent technician motioned for us to sit. Dr. Prevault strolled toward one of the tables but continued to stand, arms wrapped tightly across her chest, turning in slow circles as she enjoyed the beautiful cool evening and the fresh breeze wafting into the valley from the mountains above. Night birds trilled and wings fluttered, even at this late hour.
The technician disappeared back into the building. I studied the light shining from the homes in the valley below us. There didn’t seem to be anybody moving about, no central hub of activity. So far, there were no zombie-like mad men shuffling toward us, animated by murderous obsession. I felt safe. It was quiet and peaceful.
The technician reappeared with a steaming brass pot and set it on a white towel he folded and placed in the center of the table.
The man who let us in was young, not much older than a teenager, and he wore a white tunic and matching pants. His open-toed sandals made him look somewhat less than professional. He bowed deeply to Captain Prevault.
“I called for Doctor Hwang,” she said. “He should be expecting us.”
I’m not sure if the young man understood. His face remained blank, but he turned abruptly and started to walk away. Captain Prevault followed, as did I.
The place was quiet. We were obviously outside of their regular duty hours, and only a skeleton crew would handle the night shift. As our feet clattered on tile corridors, I started to realize this place wasbigger than it looked from outside. We turned right and then left and climbed a short flight of stairs until we stood in front of a very narrow elevator. I’d seen them before in downtown Seoul, appearing as if they were squeezed into a building as an afterthought or purposely made tiny to save money. The young man pressed the button and the door slid open a few feet. The three of us stepped into the elevator, crammed together tightly, each of us staring in a different direction so as not to wash our fellow passengers with hot breath.
Our floor said six, and the young man pressed the button for two. The little elevator shuddered and descended into the bowels of Bukhan Mountain. I felt as if I were in a coffin. The elevator wheezed and moved down fitfully. Finally, it slowed, then shuddered, and the narrow doors slid open. Captain Prevault got off first. I tried to wait for the white-smocked technician, but he insisted I precede him.
We stood in a smooth walled cubicle with a single bulb glowing above us. The bulb was incased in an iron cage. There was nothing here that could be broken, or used as a weapon.
Brusquely, the technician hurried down a long corridor. I was expecting “tiger cages” like I’d seen pictures of at the Long Binh Jail in Vietnam or rock-hewn cells like I’d seen before in the Korean “monkey houses.” Instead, the technician led us through a double door into a spacious lawn with wrought iron chairs and matching round tables. Beyond that, a gentle slope dropped off into a valley lined with narrow walkways that led to stands of willow trees and small tile-roofed buildings adorned with bulbs blinking merrily in the brisk autumn air. On the far side of the valley, about three quarters of a mile away, the sister peak of Bukhan Mountain rose sharply, its jagged silhouette illuminated now by a low-hanging moon. To the right and to the left, the valley was similarly walled off.
Captain Prevault leaned close to me. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It’s like a bowl, in the center of the mountains.”
“Yes, a safe place for patients to recover. I wish Eighth Army had a similar facility.”
“What
does
Eighth Army have?”
“The stockade in Pupyong.”
The silent technician motioned for us to sit. Dr. Prevault strolled toward one of the tables but continued to stand, arms wrapped tightly across her chest, turning in slow circles as she enjoyed the beautiful cool evening and the fresh breeze wafting into the valley from the mountains above. Night birds trilled and wings fluttered, even at this late hour.
The technician disappeared back into the building. I studied the light shining from the homes in the valley below us. There didn’t seem to be anybody moving about, no central hub of activity. So far, there were no zombie-like mad men shuffling toward us, animated by murderous obsession. I felt safe. It was quiet and peaceful.
The technician reappeared with a steaming brass pot and set it on a white towel he folded and placed in the center of the table.
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