If I Only Knew

“Man, what the hell are we doing out here…it’s two in the damned morning!”

“I heard Anderson crying for his mom. What a puss!”

“Shh! Shut up, they’re going to hear us!”

I have been here two days and I already think I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. My mother bawled when I left. Her pleas for me to stay bring tears to my own eyes, and I wonder if I’ll ever see her again. Right now, what I want more than anything in the world is sleep.

It’s mid-June and still 90 degrees. I’ve been awake for 20 hours and now they have our whole company standing in formation at two in the morning. It’s impossible to conceive my situation as real. It’s almost like this is all a dream. The lack of sleep makes my vision blurry, and my head is spinning with sounds I know do not exist.

Our Instructor roars, “Tomorrow, ladies, your Drill Sergeants are coming to pick you up.” He sounds evil. “I’m glad, ‘cause that means I don’t have to look at your ugly-ass faces anymore. But I guarantee you’ll wish you were back here with me, when those Drills get a hold of you!”

His long-winded speech does nothing but eat away at the precious time I have for sleep. He finally releases us after thirty minutes of destroying what little hopes we have of surviving Basic Training. It’s time to try and get some sleep, but I’m not sure if I can calm myself enough to even close my eyes. Bound to my fate, I walk back to the barracks with the first friend I’ve made since my journey to manhood began. “Joe. What do you think they are going to do to us tomorrow?”

“I hear they come in cattle trucks and shove us in there like sardines. Then they drive us out to the country and run us into the ground.” He says this as a tear forms and runs slowly down his cheek. He wipes the tear away with the back of his shirtsleeve and walks away. This gives me something to dream about for the next two hours.

The next morning I wake to the cackle of the instructor. “Get your ass up ladies. Pack your duffel bags. The trucks are here!”

I look outside, and it takes a few seconds for me to catch my breath. Huge 18 wheeled trucks line the parking lot. Each one has a trailer engineered to carry human beings. It is sickening to think they are going to shove me into those trucks. It’s even more frightening to think of their destination.

PSHHHTT! Air locks open the doors on the side of the trailers, and there stand the most intimidating figures I’ve ever seen. I am wide-awake now. My heart is almost pounding from my chest and these figures just stand in the dark doors like stone statues.

They jump from the doors in a rage. The Drill Sergeants come at us from all directions, unprovoked, driven by nothing but the pure hatred of the sight of our bald heads and sun burned faces. “Get your monkey ass on my truck! You belong to me for the next eight weeks of your life…if you live that long!”

We out-number them, one hundred to one. My perception of time changes and everything seems to slow down. No one moves. I know everyone has the same feeling I do. I’m searching for a place to run. The Drill Sergeants have done this before and they expect such a thing. More Drills run from the trucks and surround us. A black sweaty hand appears from nowhere and grabs my shirt. I turn around and look at his face. It’s then I realize this man isn’t human. I can’t see his eyes. The large green Drill Hat makes his face look as if he has nothing but eye sockets. “Are you deaf or just retarded, private? I said get on my truck!” He pushes me hard to the ground and other hands grab me.

If I get on this truck, I may never come back the same person. There isn’t much choice. Kicks in my back force me to climb the ledge into the truck. More soldiers are pushed inside and the old trailer fills within seconds. We are packed in tight, it’s hard to breathe, and more of us are being shoved inside. I’m in the back corner with my face shoved into the boards lining the inside. I can’t move my arms. They are pinned between two men that look exactly like everyone else here, bald and scared with sweat dripping down and stinging our eyes.

Five Drill Sergeants climb into the truck, stepping on top of the poor soldiers that happen to be in their path. I make the mistake of looking a Drill Sergeant in the eye. “What the fuck do you think you are doing! You can’t look a Drill Sergeant in the eye. That’s a direct threat, and it gives me the right to defend myself! I’m scared in here, can’t you tell?” he mocks, “Everyone get your face into your duffel bags. If I see your eye balls I’ll personally rip them out and serve them to you at the chow hall!”

The side door locks shut and the trailer is dark. I can smell sweat and fear. My chest is tightening. It takes every bit of self-control to keep from screaming. I get quiet and regulate my breathing. The trucks start to move and I feel the world spin.

The ride is quiet except for the occasional sound of someone crying. The Drills stifle it instantly. Their screams are loud and reverberate throughout the trailer. It’s as if they are super-human. Large muscular bodies and dark sunken eyes are only the things I noticed at first, it’s their innate anger and hatred that weighs heavily on my mind now. I can not grasp how the Drills can possess such hatred toward others. What fuels this deep animosity, and do they enjoy the pain they inflict on us?

The trucks come to a stop with the sound of air escaping the break lines. The doors open and sunlight stings my eyes. Some soldiers are asleep indicating the trip was longer than I first thought. I squint and look out the door where I behold the horror that is to be my new life.

If I only knew.

I have never been to Hawaii, nor set foot on a Caribbean Island, but I have been to a tropical island in the Sea of Japan. I was in the Unites States Army as a Broadcast Journalist at the time of my visit to the Island of Cheju. I journeyed to Chejudo (that is Korean for Island of Cheju) on a television news assignment. My mission was to videotape life on the island for a thirty-minute television documentary.

I had mixed feelings about going on such an important mission. On one hand I was excited to be given the opportunity, but on the other hand I was tired of traveling. My assignment to Chejudo was one day after returning from a thirty-day mission in the United States. I did not have much choice in the matter. Most people know, when the Army tells you do go somewhere, you go. I decided to take the “excited about the trip” angle on the whole situation and view the assignment as a great time to see the world and sharpen my broadcasting skills. I barely had time to wash my dirty clothes before packing them for another trip. I woke up early the next morning, drove through rush hour traffic to the airport and waited for my plane. I had my video camera by my side and a week’s worth of clothes in a pull along suitcase behind me.

I left the mainland of Korea by airplane on a cloudy summer afternoon headed on an hour long journey toward my destination in the Sea Of Japan. I appreciated the hour of rest on the plane, because I could foresee the hectic week ahead. For some reason, these trips to exciting places never were very exciting for me. Most of the time I would see the countryside through a camera lens. This time I made up my mind to enjoy the trip. I let my mind daydream and before I knew it the captain was asking us to prepare for landing. “Please fasten your seatbelts,” was an all too familiar phrase.

I looked through the window of the plane as we descended toward the island. The view was breathtaking. I could make out the coral reefs in the blue ocean I imagined them as ancient formations holding all the secrets of the past and showing them to me with their bright green and blue collages. Trees covered the land and there wasn’t a skyscraper in sight. Boats surrounded the bays and fisherman walked the docks. I still had yet to spot an automobile. I was suddenly happy to be on this trip.

My plane landed and I gathered my equipment from the terminal. An American man approached me with a smile. “Specialist Queen?” He asked. “That’s me,” I replied following the man outside, “What a beautiful place, and it’s sunny!”

“You won’t find any pollution on this island. They regulate the amount of automobiles here. I’m one of the few lucky one’s with a van. Hop in, I’ll take you to your hut.”

We introduced ourselves on the way to my hut and shared Army stories. My new friend’s name was John. He was an ex-soldier that decided his place on earth was on this island. He spoke of his numerous island adventures and one of his stories caught my attention. “Tell me more about the guy who carves statues.” I asked. Most of his story seemed a little too good to be true, so I wrote down directions to this carver’s home and decided this carver would be the first person I visit.

The next morning I woke before dawn and meticulously positioned my gear in my backpack to keep my equipment safe from breaking. It seemed my island adventures were to be from the seat of an old Korean bicycle and I did not want to damage my camera. I hoped that I would get to tape some exciting footage on my journey.

I ate a hearty breakfast with John and left at sunrise to find the old man who carved stone statues. I mounted my clumsy bicycle and looked into the sunrise as another day smiled on me. On this particular day the sun was welcoming me to one of God’s beautiful creations.

I took my time pedaling through the countryside and tried to remember every inch of land I passed. I was on the journey of lifetime and never wanted to forget the details of this island. The mountains were green with foliage this time of year and they towered high into the sky. In the distance, I could hear the ocean surf breaking hard against a jagged rock beach. I noticed myself riding off the side of the road and startled back into the real world. It was then I remembered John telling me the old man was a Buddhist Monk. I could not wait to actually meet one of those guys so I pedaled faster.

John hadn’t visited the monk’s house in years but his memory still served him and his directions were simple to follow. When I finally found the old monk’s dwelling, it was mid afternoon and the sun shone brightly upon the largest collection of statues I had ever seen. The view of his yard told the story of ancient Korea in the blink of an eye. Stone statues of Mongolian soldiers towered above me. Groups of Korean families carved from stone gathered around a natural spring that divided the garden.

I dismounted my bike and propped it against a tree not once taking my eyes off the statues. I followed the clear spring and wove my way through the maze of figures. I could not fathom the time and patience it took this man to hand carve a ten foot dragon. I walked a few steps farther into the yard and stopped when the spring disappeared into a dark cave. This place was amazing! I had seen such magnificent work in the past few moments, I was half expecting to find the meaning of life while I was in this garden.

A light deep within the cave caught my eye and my curiosity. I into the darkness of the cave and saw a staircase carved into the ground that led inside. Without thinking, I followed it down into the darkness. I could feel the temperature drop instantly and my whole body shivered. I felt the cold stone stairs through the soles of my boots and wondered how long it would take me to acclimate to the temperature of the cave.

The staircase ended and I searched to find the path of the spring. I located the spring’s end a few yards inside the cave and realized I was standing beside an underground lake. The air rising from the lake was crisp and the purist I’ve ever felt fill my lungs. I wanted to stay there and take breath after breath while it cleansed my body and mind. A light flickered again on the wall and I walked toward it. The cave was almost completely dark now, but my eyes had adjusted enough for me to make out a curve in the path of the cave. I carefully walked around the corner and my eyes lay upon the true work of a spiritual man. Before me was a chamber with domed walls carved into the cave. The walls were smooth and covered in golden statues. Kneeling on the floor of the chamber was the man I sought. He sat on the ground with his back to me. The light was dim but I could still make out his brown robe and bald head. He was completely still and in deep meditation. A stone altar rested before the man and candles burned all around the inside of the chamber. I could hear the silence in the cave. It was deafening. I then realized the old monk knew I was standing behind him. I had disturbed his temple with my presence and he was telling me to leave by filling my head with his silence. I quickly took a last look and ran back up the stairs to safety. I sadly realized I would never see the inside of the cave again.

The cave was exciting, but I had more to explore in the garden. A short while later the monk caught up with me in the garden of statues and offered me a tour. I graciously accepted and listened eagerly as he told tales of Korean lore and history. He was excited to show his home to an American and took most of the day to escort me around the garden. After a tiring but interesting day of soaking in the culture, I realized I had just experienced something that would change my life forever. Actually, it was two things that would change my life forever. One was the great cultural experience. The other was the fact that I completely forgot to videotape the tour.

Do you ever wish you didn't know the whole story of a situation? Sometimes, maybe you would have been better off not knowing exactly what was going on. That's how I felt after one dreary afternoon at my friend Curtis's house. I haven't set foot back inside that house since our adventure exploring its dark secrets. We both knew his house was ancient, but we didn’t exactly know its age. The other houses on the block gave us an idea of when Curtis’s house was constructed.

The house to the right of Curtis's was a four story gothic house. It had round rooms on one side and water-stained wooden shingle siding. The windows were a foggy white so passers by could not look in. It was old and spooky. Some kids in the neighborhood said the old lady living inside didn’t believe in banks, and she kept all her money in cash, hidden in the house.

The house on the left was recently renovated inside and also four stories tall. It had apartments built into it and was an ugly shade of pastel blue. The word around school was it used to be a funeral home around the turn of the century. We used to joke about someone finding dead bodies in the plasterboard of the walls.

Curtis's house was only three stories tall and an off-white color. It wasn’t anything special by looking at the outside. Once you stepped inside its doors, you knew someone meticulously built this house. All the floors inside were dark oak and gleamed with an almost black luster. The railings on the stairs were hand carved from the same type of oak. His mother would spend hours a week hand polishing the railings of the staircase. Looking up the stairs was like looking into oblivion. No matter what lights were on upstairs, the top of the staircase ended at a dark hole. If you weren’t familiar with the house, you would think a door was shut at the top of the staircase.

Looking back on the last day I spent in Curtis's house, I remember looking out its old windows at the overcast sky. The clouds were a dark gray with black streaks running through them, giving a texture to the dreary Kansas sky. I was halfway through the summer of my seventh grade year and was thinking about how fast the summer was passing me by.

"Hey man, I'm bored to death. Do you want to try hanging this punching bag and beating the crap out of it?" Curtis asked me with a mischievous smile on his face.

We decided to hang it in Curtis's room upstairs, but his mother was against the idea and pointed us in the direction of the basement. Her room was next door to Curtis's room and she was dead set against the idea of us pounding a punching back while she tried to sleep.

Curtis was anxious to go down into the basement. It brought back his childhood memories of playing in a secret tunnel that you could crawl through to his backyard. This was hard for me to believe until we turned on the light. The light’s meager attempt to illuminate this huge basement revealed a red clay brick wall with a perfect square, four feet by four feet, cut out of its center.

Curtis swore to me the hole led to the backyard. To prove it, he was going to climb it once more. I grabbed a small flashlight off a bench and shined it in the hole. Inside I could see a gray textured substance lining its walls. It wasn’t rock, but it was hard almost like cement. On the side of the hole were small pieces of brass that at one time, could have been hinges.

“Let’s both of us go inside,” said Curtis, “we’ll sneak around into the house and scare my mom!” This actually sounded fun at the time, so I agreed to follow him into the hole.

The gray substance on the inside wasn’t as hard as I first thought. It crunched underneath my feet and rubbed onto my hands like a powder. I stopped half way through the hole and used my flashlight to burrow into the wall. The gray rock crumbled away and my flashlight struck something hard.

“Curtis, come here man I’ve dug up something in the wall, check it out. What is this place?”

What I hit appeared to be a nozzle of some sort. It was a corroded brass colored tube with a small opening in the end. The tube ran into a pipe and was about a half-inch in diameter. I burrowed out around the pipe and ran into another tube.

“I’ll start digging on this side and see if there are pipes over here.” Curtis was getting excited about his old childhood tunnel.

I, on the other hand, was becoming apprehensive about being there. This tunnel was new to me and there seemed to be more to it than a childhood fantasy. Why are there pipes in this tunnel, and what were they used for? We kept digging.

An hour later we reached a solid wall at the end of the tunnel. It turns out, Curtis’s young imagination tricked him into believing this hole led outside. The back wall of the tunnel was metal. It was exactly like the metal used in the pipes. My curiosity got the best of me and we decided to dig as much of the gray material away from the wall as we could.

I looked at my hands and saw my sweat had turned the gray powder black. I turned the light on Curtis’s face and laughed because he was also covered in the black mess. He looked like a coal miner from a John Wayne movie! We spent most of the morning hacking away at the walls with our tiny flashlights and made our way back out the tunnel.

Once out of the tunnel and on our feet again, we shined our flashlights into the tunnel to examine what we had discovered. We looked at each other and shrugged. I think both of us were hoping to see a miraculous secret we had brought to life. Our flashlights lit up the tunnel in an eerie way I will always remember. Four brass pipes ran horizontally down each side of the tunnel and disappeared into the metal wall in its end. For a split second, I thought a saw a face glimmer on the surface of the metal wall.

“This is too creepy. I want to show your parents,” I said. “Yeah, let’s go get my mom,” agreed Curtis.

We ran up the stairs eager to show our new discovery. His mother was in the kitchen and was immediately interested in what we had to show her. Back down the stairs we went, only this time we were silent. We weren't sure if there was any importance in our discovery, but something deep inside told me there was a reason to show this tunnel to his mother.

“What is it mom?” Curtis asked. “I don’t know for sure son, but I have and idea. I need to check into it,” she said softly, “You boys stay upstairs from now on, okay?”

“Sure, no problem. We were only bored today anyway.” Curtis replied and we scurried up the stairs. Neither one of us wanted to be in the basement any more than the other. His mother's order to stay away was a welcomed excuse to get out of the ghostly basement. He went to his room and I road my bicycle home.

I didn’t see Curtis at school for the next three days and I couldn’t get a hold of him on the telephone. Something weird was going on and I didn’t like it. On the fourth day after our tunnel discovery, Curtis showed up at school.

“Where have you been man? Did your mom find out about the tunnel?” I asked.

“I’ve been moving. My father came home from work the day we were in the tunnel and my mom took him down there. When they came back up the stairs, my father made a few phone calls and told us we were moving!”

“But, why what was so bad about the basement?” I was getting a sick feeling in my stomach and maybe even a feeling of guilt.