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.
When Team Spirit wrapped up, I reported back to the reconnaissance unit and packed my gear for reassignment. A deuce-and-a-half truck picked me up off at the 18th Division Ranger training ground. After reporting for duty to the senior NCO, I was led to the barracks, where I met my mentor—a sergeant nearing discharge who worked as a liaison instructor for the U.S. military's Ranger training program.
Being paired with him came with a strange kind of privilege: I was exempted from lots of the usual duties because he was required to pass on everything he knew to me before his leave—his discharge depended on it. But that privilege came at a cost. Whenever he wasn't around, I had to watch my back constantly. A junior having it easier than the senior guys wasn't tolerated, and the moment my mentor stepped away, the older soldiers would show up without fail to put me through it.
I had a lot of things to do. I had to write the Ranger training manual in English, and I spent my time trailing the training mentor, trying to memorize the entire course layout. Then winter training began in earnest. After this tedious instructor training, spring came, and I became a lead instructor for US soldiers.
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| *Rope-ladder-and-descent course created from Illustrator by me.* |
The part that scared me most was the rope-ladder-and-descent course. At its peak stood an 11-meter pole—the height, they say, that triggers the most primal fear in a person. You had to stand on top after you climbed the ladder, shout out the Ranger's creed, and climb back down using a rope. Instructors also used that wooden pole for "owl training," making trainees stand there. I still remember one day, dead tired and without a safety line, I dozed off while standing on that pole and nearly fell.
Then there was the slide-for-life course. Chestnut trees lined the path up the hill, and to reach the top you had to sprint up it barefoot, shouting the Rangers' creed the whole way. There was no avoiding the fallen chestnuts underfoot—their spines drove straight into your soles.
At the top, you'd grab the zip-line trolley, shout the creed three times, and drop toward a deep pond below. If your grip slipped partway down, you'd land on the gravel bank instead—never a good outcome. The cable ran about 150 meters, so you picked up terrifying speed on the way down. You had to let go right before hitting the concrete bridge (actually, there was a net before the bridge to protect you from the impact) and land in the pond to avoid crashing into it. Body position mattered too—if you didn't fold yourself into an L-shape, injury was almost guaranteed. The instructors ran this drill so often that after climbing out of the pond, you could see every capillary through their skin—that's how cold it was.
One incident showed just how dangerous that course really was. Soldiers in their final stretch before discharge are usually excused from it. But one such sergeant insisted on doing it once before he left the army.
He jumped.
And then, just as you might fear, he had a heart attack. The instructors pulled him from the rescue boat waiting below and tried CPR; even a U.S. Army medic rushed over to help. Nothing worked. We learned afterward that he'd been married. Maybe it was fate—he'd been told plainly that he didn't have to jump, and he insisted anyway. That's how we lost him.
We lost someone we couldn't afford to lose that day.
* The top image was created by Nano Banana 2
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