In South Korea, virtually all healthy men are required by law to complete mandatory military service, typically between the ages of 18 and 28. Today the term is around 18-21 months, but in the 1990s it was considerably longer—roughly 27 to 30 months, before being gradually shortened in later years. This series is based on my own experience serving during that era.
Yet the reason I ended up participating in Team Spirit (1988) training was simple. It was because I could speak English better than other Korean soldiers. That was the only reason. Since it was a joint training exercise with the US military, translation assistance was needed, so I was assigned to that role. Even though I hadn’t yet been assigned a permanent base and my current affiliation was unclear.
One day during the training schedule, I joined the main body of the reconnaissance battalion. The atmosphere there was different. The soldiers’ eyes were sharp, and they spoke few words. As a private second class, I looked excessively soft and naive among them. Perhaps that was why my seniors pinned a corporal's rank insignia on me—so that I would look the part instead of embarrassing them, since I looked too weak on my own.
“Starting today, you’re a corporal.”
The moment the fake rank insignia was attached, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Laughing felt disrespectful, and crying felt too unfair. I just kept silent.
A few days later, I was dispatched to an infantry unit to continue Team Spirit training. An unexpected visitation took place there. My mother and wife were standing in front of the unit. A large bag was held by the two people, filled with homemade food.
That day, for the first time, I truly felt the reality that I was in the military. It was because I faced both my mother, whose eyes welled up with tears as she looked at me in my uniform, and my wife, who forced a smile and told me she was okay at the same time.
We were allowed to have our visitation meal inside the base cafeteria. Side dish containers were lined up on the table, and I took off my combat helmet and placed it on top of the partition. It was just for a moment. Truly a brief moment.
While my mother excused herself to go to the restroom, I was holding my spoon when I suddenly looked over at the spot where my helmet had been.
It was gone. In that instant, my heart nearly stopped.
In the military, a combat helmet was not just a simple piece of equipment. Losing it meant immediate disciplinary punishment, and that punishment would bring resentment from the entire unit down on me. I couldn’t even chew my food. My hands shook, and the sound of my spoon clattering rang out unusually loud.
“What’s wrong?” my wife asked.
I couldn’t answer. Even when my mother returned, I just kept my head bowed, staring down at my rice bowl. It was at that moment.
A few minutes later, a sergeant who was sitting with his family at the next table walked over and held out a helmet—someone else's, the serial number and owner both unknown to me.
“Isn’t this... yours?”
I couldn’t say a single word. Surprise, relief, and fear rushed over me all at once. It was clear that the soldier had gotten the helmet from somewhere. Too harsh to call it theft, too generous to call it borrowing.
“Where did you...?”
He leaned in instead of answering. "Don't worry about it. In the military, as long as the numbers add up, that's all that matters." The line stayed with me longer than the moment itself. No one asked any further questions. We let out a breath and went back to eating. The nature of this situation had a way of revealing itself in exactly these small, reckless moments.
That evening, roll call began. The soldiers lined up in front of their bunk beds. The air was strangely heavy. Before the roll call officer approached, a corporal on the opposite bunk shouted out.
“Hey! Someone stole my helmet!”
In that instant, a cold sweat ran down my spine. Could it be... no way. Surely not.
Roll call began, and everyone bowed their heads. It was then that I noticed it: On top of the shelf across from mine sat a helmet—wherever the corporal had managed to get it.
I clenched my teeth to keep from laughing. Haha, this guy had fetched a helmet from somewhere else.
Roll call ended as if nothing had happened. The lights went out, and the soldiers lay down on their bunks. Staring at the ceiling, I thought to myself: the military is truly a strange place. A place where a single helmet can turn a whole day into hell, and then pass by as if none of it had ever happened.
That night I fell asleep like a baby—a private wearing a corporal's insignia, under a stranger's helmet, in a place where nothing mattered as long as the numbers added up.
* The top image was created by Nano Banana 2
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