My First Day at a Korean Military Boot Camp—A Personal Story of Mandatory Military Service in South Korea
Just yesterday, I wasn't here.
And yet here I am now, in a strange place, among strangers, tense and waiting only for orders.
This is a military training center. There are countless young men here, including me. We all wear roughly the same expression—tense faces, stiff postures. An awkward air hangs over everything.
Our first assignment was sewing. Each of us was given a uniform and told to sew a numbered name tag onto the chest.
Chaos broke out. The thread won't go through, I've never even held a needle—that kind of thing, from all directions. On top of that, we weren't given nearly enough time, so everyone grew flustered. Fingers pricked by needles, thread tangling.
Luckily, I am fairly good with my hands, so I finished neatly. I looked at my name tag—straight, clean. I felt a small lift of pride. Maybe I'd get praised for it.
But the instructor only glanced at it and walked on. Then he pointed at the trainee beside me and told him to do it again. Pass if you do it right; do it again if you don't. So that's the rule here.
The sewing was done. We lined up to be inspected.
Some tags were crooked. Some hung loose and floppy. On one, the thread had wandered right over the number. I had to bite back a laugh.
"From now on, you will be addressed by the number on your chest."
Something in me shifted. We're not prisoners...
I remembered what my friends had told me. That discipline at boot camp was even harsher than in the regular army. That making recruits sew on the first day was meant to break them in. That it was deliberately something young men couldn't be good at.
"Get to the parade ground—now, move!"
Everyone rushed outside in a mass. A few poorly stitched name tags flapped loose as we ran.
Forward, march! Everyone stepped off at once.
Right, face! We were supposed to turn right, but someone turned left. More than one, in fact.
Left, face! Again, someone turned the wrong way.
About, face! Someone lost their balance mid-turn.
It was a mess. None of us had come here wanting to become career soldiers. We'd simply been swept up by mandatory service.
To us, the instructor said:
"Drill continues until not a single person makes a mistake!"
By the time we were dizzy with exhaustion from right-face, left-face, lunchtime finally came.
"Whew—now we can rest"
That turned out to be a complete misunderstanding. Even eating was an extension of training.
We had to eat fast, without talking. No chatting with the person beside you, no savouring the food. So we crammed our stomachs full of tension and hunger, then went straight back to the parade ground.
As training continued, someone collapsed. There was a brief murmur, but the instructor didn't so much as blink. Then another man went down—foaming at the mouth, this time. Still, the instructor's commands kept coming.
But this training would turn out to be mild compared to that night's roll call.
We lined up for roll call. I was seventh in a line of about ten. The instructor always started with the first trainee and worked down the line—the later your number, the higher the tension.
The third trainee took a knee to the leg.
Thud!
Then the fourth was being worked over. Two more before my turn. My heartbeat kept climbing.
The instructor checked everything—how we stood, our uniforms, how our shelves were arranged, whether our boots were polished, whether the folded blankets had sharp edges. If even one thing fell short, everyone was punished.
At last, the instructor's shout tore through the room.
"Everyone, heads down for 10 minutes!"
What's known as the "Wonsan bombing" position: only the head and the soles of the feet touch the ground, hands clasped behind the back, the body bent into an L-shape.
It's such a brutal posture that inevitably someone's hands give out, or a knee touches the floor. When that happens, the instructor shouts:
"Start over from the beginning!"
Meaning everything endured so far counts for nothing. We started again from zero.
The instructor left, and it was lights out. Everyone collapsed onto their bunks with sighs of relief, then shifted their aching bodies, letting out low groans.
From nearby came the sound of quiet sniffing. It was the trainee who'd pricked his fingers with the needle over and over. But it didn't last. Worn out from the hard day, everyone sank into sleep.
I'd barely closed my eyes, it seemed, when someone shook my shoulder.
"Your turn. Get up."
Already? Mourning the sliver of sleep I'd just lost, I put on my uniform and went out for guard duty.
One hour of night watch.
I set unfamiliar boots against the concrete floor of the barracks. Some twenty men lay passed out beneath identical olive-drab blankets. Snoring. The rustle of someone turning over. Beyond the window at the far end, the sound of insects.
Tap, tap.
The soles of my boots struck the concrete.
I stopped walking. The sound stopped.
I started again. The sound started again.
I checked my watch. Still forty minutes left. My eyelids kept sinking.
Time to switch! I woke the next man.
"Already my turn?"
He sat up, eyes half-open.
I went back to my bunk and pulled the blanket over myself again.
When on earth would this life start to feel normal? One month of training. After that, we'd all be assigned to our units. By then, maybe this life would have settled into my body. And they said the army was easier than boot camp. Just get through this hurdle.
Telling myself this, I slipped into sleep.
In a few hours, the morning bugle would sound.
* If you liked this story, you can check out The Magic of Military Math— The Day I Lost My Helmet.
* The top image was created by Nano Banana 2
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