The Hunters Read Free Page B

there, on foot, taking weeks to move the distance he went in an hour. He was arriving like a tourist, in comfort. He felt the detachment of a specialist, and the importance. His gaze moved for a while to the heavy wing and the
outboard nacelle, which was the only one he could see. A broad slick of oil, black and gleaming, was spread back from the cowling. He went back to staring moodily at the land.
    Within an hour they had landed at Seoul. It was a blue, bitter February afternoon. Cleve stepped off the plane onto Korean ground frozen as hard as plaster. A sharp wind was keening across the flats. It stung his cheeks and made the rims of his ears ache. It came with the sharpness of steel into his lungs when he breathed. His eyes watered.
    He followed along in the string of debarking passengers. They walked across a bare expanse of earth toward buildings near which were mounds of baggage, barracks bags, and groups of waiting men huddled in their overcoats. He walked past them and into the biggest hut. Inside it was crowded, too, and almost as cold. Men were clustered about the two oil stoves, warming their hands. Cleve hesitated, then began pushing through them with difficulty toward a counter he could see at the far end of the room. There he inquired, as soon as he had an opportunity to, about going on to Kimpo. He had no idea how long an additional trip it might be.
    â€œI’ll find out for you, Captain,” the corporal said, turning away. “Hey, how do you get from here to Kimpo?”
    â€œTo where?”
    â€œKimpo.”
    â€œThere’s a bus that goes there.”
    â€œWhen does it run?”
    â€œHow should I know? Look at the schedule.”
    â€œWhere’s the schedule?”
    â€œOh, Christ.” The other man walked over with an expression
of disgust on his face. He was a sergeant. He leafed through a foliage of paper tacked on the wall and quickly located the schedule. He ran a finger down its columns.
    â€œThe next one is due to leave here in,” he looked at his watch, “thirty-five minutes.” He turned to Cleve. “Are you the one who’s going to Kimpo, Captain?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œYou can catch it just outside, on the road.”
    â€œThanks.”
    Cleve sat down on one of the benches near the counter to begin an uncomfortable wait. He had meant to ask how long a ride it would be, but he suddenly felt it did not make any difference. He listened to pieces of conversation. Everybody seemed to be on the way back to Japan. In Japan, everybody had been going back to the States. He was moving alone against this tide. It was always that way, he reflected, the feeling of arriving late, after everything was over.
    When half an hour had passed, he walked outside. There was no bus yet. He waited for five minutes, bundled against the wind. The warmth soon left him. A numbing cold penetrated the soles of his shoes and seemed to reach the bone. Finally, a truck appeared with a small wooden sign that said KIMPO wired to its radiator. He took his bags and threw them up over the tailgate. Then he went to sit in the cab with the driver. He was the only passenger.
    They left the airfield, crossed a trestle bridge, and drove along the outskirts of Seoul. Everything seemed dirty and poor. The unfinished wood of the houses was blackened, and even the snow was gray on the roofs. It was a bleak, merciless time of the year.
Ragged children trailed begging after soldiers. The trees were bare, and outside the city the rice paddies were frozen. A few old men had chopped holes in the ice of the river to fish.
    Cleve removed his gloves and lit a cigarette. There was not much taste to it, only a thin sensation of air that did not have the chill of crystal. He sat smoking as they jarred along. The road climbed and traveled an embankment overlooking an industrial section. Then it was lined with stunted trees for a way, before it emerged in open country.
    â€œHow