Fiction—Three Soldiers, One Motorcycle, And a Brush

 

Three Soldiers, One Motorcycle, And a Brush

The barracks were always quiet before evening roll call, the way the air goes still before a storm. Under the fluorescent lights, shadows stretched across the floor, and the smell of dust clung to our boots. Even the clatter of helmets and entrenching tools being arranged on the shelves seemed sharper than usual.

Our platoon leader was notoriously strict about roll call. Under his fierce glare, the soldiers barely dared to breathe.

That day was different. Long before roll call began, he pulled three privates aside.

"You look tired, " he said. "Go to sleep early."

We exchanged glances. The three men lay down on their bunks, looking as bewildered as we were. None of us had ever seen him show that kind of favour.

The rest of us went through roll call as usual. Our boot tips weren't lined up straight enough, the corners of our blankets weren't crisp enough—He tore into us for every little thing. His shouting bounced off the barracks walls and rang in our ears. 

When roll call finally ended, more than an hour later, we collapsed onto our bunks. I've always been a light sleeper. The smallest noise wakes me.

In the gray hour before dawn, while darkness still clung to the windows, the three got up quietly. They dressed in their combat uniforms without a word. Their movements were practiced and quick. One of them opened the door just enough to slip through, and cold morning air entered the room.

They disappeared into the darkness. I raised myself slightly and watched them go.

Something felt off. 

At morning roll call, we assembled on the drill field. The sky was ash-gray, and dust clung to our boots. Then we heard an engine. Every head turned.

The three men came riding onto the field on a motorcycle. They were still wearing their military uniforms. Black exhaust behind them.

The platoon leader stood with his arms crossed, completely unfazed. He greeted them with a brief look. And suddenly, the pieces fit.

That was why he'd sent them to bed early. That was why they'd left before dawn. They had gone and stolen a civilian's motorcycle.

A few days later, the platoon leader called into the admin office. 

"You can draw well," he said. I nodded.

"Repaint the numbers on the back of the plate. Clean job."

Outside stood the motorcycle. It had a license plate, but something about it looked wrong. 

I picked up a brush. The smell of paint stung my nose. Over the white plate, I painted new numbers. One number at a time, the old ones disappeared.

I set the brush down and looked at what I'd done. Someone had owned that motorcycle. Someone had parked it somewhere and expected to find it there again. I didn't know who they were. I didn't know where the motorcycle had been taken from. I only knew that, with every stroke of the brush, I had helped erase what happened to them.

The platoon leader rode it around the base. Sometimes he passed through the checkpoint and went outside the gates, then returned as if nothing were unusual. No one stopped him.

At night, I sometimes thought about the owner. I imagined an empty space. A person standing there, standing at the place where their motorcycle should have been. Then I stopped myself. There was nothing I could do about it.

One night, the platoon leader came into the barracks smelling of alcohol, spinning the motorcycle key around his finger.

"Thanks to you, I got to ride this thing in style."

I said nothing. I looked past him, into the darkness outside. 

Years later, I still remember the numbers I painted over. Sometimes I can see them again in my mind—the old numbers beneath the new ones, refusing to stay erased.

Near the end of my service, I saw the motorcycle one last time. It was still sitting in a corner of the base, dust settled into its faded paint.  I didn't go near it. There was nothing left to say to it. By then, the platoon leader had transferred to another unit. 

The motorcycle remained. So did the numbers.

* The top image was created by Nano Banana

Author's Note

South Korea has mandatory military service, meaning our main character didn't sign up for glory—he was just serving his mandatory time like everyone else. Think less "action hero" and more "confused twenty-something in fatigues." These are fictionalized stories from those unforgettable years.