The Canned Beer Convoy

In the murk of a winter dawn, a Cheongsan truck that had punched through the dark all the way to Incheon pulled up in front of Hanjin Trading.

Cho Choong-hoon took one look at the bus-trucks Ki-jo had sent and started.

He bought buses and turned them into trucks? Twelve of them—and why on earth so many men?

Choong-hoon cocked his head. However you turned it, Ki-jo's answer to a problem was a peculiar one. Even so, he envied a man who could throw that many hands and trucks into a convoy on a moment's notice. He folded Hanjin's five white trucks in with Ki-jo's and set out for Bupyeong.

Leading in his Mercedes, he reached the U.S. Army logistics warehouse, met the American in charge, and checked the papers. Ten truckloads of canned beer: that was what Hanjin–CS was to move today. One contractor had been scratched at the last minute, and the load had swelled by twenty percent. The weather, though, was the trouble. It was the Lesser Cold, and the day was living up to the name.

Choong-hoon turned to the Cheongsan man who had brought a thermometer out and was taking the air. "What's it reading now?"

"Seventeen degrees below freezing, sir."

"Cold. Who told you to bring that thermometer?"

"President Lee said to bring it."

Choong-hoon nodded. Ki-jo seemed to know exactly what they ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠were hauling. Beer freezes once it drops more than four degrees below freezing, and below that a haul becomes impossible. A box truck was bad enough. Any outfit that had shown up with an open cargo truck was in for misery.

The other contractors wore the same dumbfounded look—what kind of army mustered trucks before dawn in cold like this? Inside the warehouse that held nothing but beer, a stove kept the air about a degree below freezing. Outside was another matter. The American supply sergeant in charge of the freight did not care.

"Deliver the beer to your assigned bases within twenty-four hours."

Every contractor nodded, and not one of them moved. They all meant to wait until the sun was up and the temperature climbed. Cheongsan Transport was different. Its men were already lifting cases of beer and carrying them to the trucks.

Startled, Choong-hoon went over to the Cheongsan man still holding the thermometer. "You. What's your name?"

"Shim Hansu, sir. Department head at Cheongsan Transport."

"All right, Chief Shim. Don't move that beer. There's no rush. We'll shift it this afternoon, once the sun's up and it warms. Load it now and every bit of it will freeze and burst on the road."

Hansu grinned. "We'll be fine, sir. Our trucks are bustrucks."

"Bustrucks? What's a bustruck?"

"It's what we call a bus we've rebuilt as a truck. Turn the heater on and the warmth runs all the way into the cargo bay, so the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠beer won't freeze. They used to be buses."

Choong-hoon wanted to slap his knee.

So that's why President Lee turned buses into trucks. The man is something else.

"What's the temperature in a Cheongsan cargo bay right now?"

"About four degrees above freezing."

"Good. That'll do."

He nodded. Only Cheongsan was moving beer. Everyone else could stand there and suck their thumbs. Then the American sergeant raised his voice.

"The firm that loads first gets the freight the others won't touch. Keep standing around and CS Transport walks off with the whole job."

The other contractors went ashen. One firm, feeling the ground shift, started moving beer. They owned box trucks, the same as Hanjin, but Choong-hoon didn't believe even a box truck could make the run in this cold. He wanted to tell them the beer would burst and that they ought to come back later. Competition, though, was competition. He kept his mouth shut.

He told the Hanjin drivers to rest, then stood and watched the Cheongsan men work the cases. Amid the bustle, one enormous hand speaking the Hamgyong dialect halted the loading and began prying wooden crates open, one by one, with a crowbar. Choong-hoon rushed over.

"Hold it! Stop! We can't open those crates! You're tearing every seal!"

"Cargo's wrong."

"The cargo's wrong?"

Choong-hoon looked into the crate Jang Ma-ryang had opened. He shone a flashlight inside. Not canned beer. Bottled beer.

"There were bottles in there?"

"Yes, sir. We were about to load them, and something felt off, so we opened one. This is what we found."

Choong-hoon bent and looked closer. There wasn't even packing in the crate to cushion the glass.

What is this? They said cans, and it's bottles. Haul it like this and every one of them breaks. They've pulled the padding out too. What in the world...

He decided the Americans were playing a game. They had built a job that could not succeed and were testing the contractors against it. He was on the point of telling Cheongsan they would be wiser to sit still, the way Hanjin was, when the northerner barked an order.

"Straw out of Truck Ten. Pack the crates."

At his word the Cheongsan men moved as one body. They threw open the rear door of a bustruck, hauled out sheaves of straw, and stuffed the crates.

"Where did this straw come from?"

"Leavings from the farming out at Eundae-ri. Boss said a haul needs plenty of something to take the shock, so bring it along."

"Right. President Lee does farm rice in a big way out at Eundae-ri."

"We brought enough for Hanjin to use. We'll split it with you."

"You've got that much rice straw?"

"Yes, sir. Two bustrucks, packed full. There's a mountain of it stacked at the Cheongnyangni yard."

"Well. Thank you. Rice straw's good. President Lee came prepared."

Choong-hoon called his own men over and had them take their share. The Cheongsan crew packed the crates hard with straw, then nailed shut again the boxes they had levered open. By the time every case was aboard, the sun still was not up.

I thought they'd brought too many men. At a time like this, men are the best thing you can have.

With hands to spare, the Cheongsan crew even helped the Hanjin men shift the sheaves.

"Loaded? Then we roll."

At Ma-ryang's shout, Cheongsan's bustrucks pulled out for their destinations. The American sergeant had given the first carrier the right to choose where it delivered, and Cheongsan had taken the U.S. bases at Uijeongbu and Dongducheon. Those were as good as Cheongsan's home ground. Choong-hoon figured there was nothing left to worry about.

Once he had watched every Cheongsan bustruck leave the Bupyeong warehouse, he went back to the Hanjin office and telephoned Ki-jo.

He thanked Ki-jo and hung up.

From the first day, Cheongsan landed one on me. We're the seniors in this business, and here I am living off Cheongsan. Honestly.

Choong-hoon laughed, half incredulous, a rough bark of a laugh. If the cold did not break by afternoon, the whole haul would have to be left to Cheongsan's bustrucks.

At the head of the convoy rode Cheongsan Truck No. 1. The long column ran without mishap. When Ma-ryang, in the lead, lifted a small blue flag to signal that his truck was sound, blue flags rose one after another down the line behind him.

Twelve bustrucks crossed the Han River bridge into Seoul, ran down Sejong-daero, and turned toward Jongno. That was when Ma-ryang saw Ki-jo standing in front of the Gwanghwamun Post Office. He raised his blue flag—no trouble—and the eleven trucks following swept past Ki-jo, each lifting a blue flag in turn. In the side mirror he could see Ki-jo still watching the column go by.

Past Jongno, as they entered Cheongnyangni, Cheongsan people lined the roadside and waved. The bustrucks raised their blue flags together: all clear. Through the rearview, Ma-ryang saw one of them break into a run to telephone Ki-jo. The standing order was to call the moment the trucks cleared Cheongnyangni.

They were not moving fast. The freight was fragile, so they took their time, easy and unhurried, but twelve bustrucks in a line raised a thick cloud of dust off the road. Even so, Shim Hansu and his men in the last truck had no need to cover nose and mouth with cloth. Inside what was still, at heart, a bus, they rode warm and comfortable toward the destination.

At Uijeongbu the column held until five bustrucks had gone into the supply depot and come back out. The drivers who had finished looked light. They waved to the men bound for Dongducheon, or shot them a thumbs-up, and turned back toward Bupyeong. Once those trucks were gone, the Dongducheon run formed up again and moved.

Through Uijeongbu and Yangju they reached Dongducheon, and at the main gate of the 7th Division they were stopped and checked. A local interpreter from Dongducheon had been waiting at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the gate for the Cheongsan trucks, ready to speak for them. Ma-ryang stood beside him, waiting on clearance, and the talk ran long. Something felt wrong.

"What's the American saying?"

The interpreter answered, uneasy. "He's saying what Cheongsan brought might not be theirs. Let's wait a little. A transport officer's coming out."

A moment later the officer appeared. Beside him was a noncommissioned officer with a scarred face. He recognized Jang Ma-ryang and greeted him like an old acquaintance, glad of the sight. Then his face went grave, and he came over.

"What you brought, they say it was supposed to go to Daegu."

Hearing that, Ma-ryang was speechless. Anger rose in him, but Ki-jo had told him that no matter what happened he was not to lose his temper—solve it calmly—so he pressed it down.

"If it's Daegu, the freight ought to come up from Busan, no? Have them check again."

The interpreter put it to the sergeant. "He says it's definitely bound for Daegu. Sounds like somebody in Bupyeong made a mistake. Says they're sorry they can't help. This shouldn't happen, but now and then it does."

Looking at the sergeant's apologetic face, Ma-ryang could tell the man was telling the truth.

"All right. Tell them we understand."

He ordered the bustrucks well back from the gate. Lined along the shoulder, he climbed into a cab and brought out a bundle—cigarettes and lighters, collected off the men. He did not allow a single smoke while they were driving. He passed them out and called to the crew.

"For now, one smoke each."

Some sixty men lined the roadside, resting, smoking.

"What are you thinking of doing, Brother Ma-ryang?" Hansu asked around his own cigarette.

"Finish this one first."

Ma-ryang drew the cigarette down, stubbed it out, and spoke. "They call it Daegu freight, so we've got to go to Daegu, haven't we? Fall back to Cheongnyangni, and explain it to the boss by phone from there."

"I think that's best."

Ma-ryang turned the trucks and headed back to Cheongnyangni. There he ordered sixty servings of gukbap—hot rice soup—sent to the yard, then telephoned Ki-jo. Once Ki-jo had heard it, he thought the same as Ma-ryang.

Ma-ryang shared out the gukbap, delivered pot and all on a handcart, with the men. He topped off the fuel in seven bustrucks and had one extra cargo truck follow, loaded with drums of gasoline. It was a long haul. They were certain to run dry on the way. He sent someone to Cheongnyangni Market for a heap of rice cakes and loaded cans of water as well. Before they left for Daegu, he gave the men their orders.

"We rest once every two hours. One cigarette then. From here on, meals are rice cakes and water."

"Yes, sir."

They answered with set, grim faces, as if they had braced themselves. With the fuel truck added, eight vehicles in all pulled out for Daegu. Truck No. 1 raised its blue flag and started, and one by one the others lifted theirs and rolled forward.

In the lead truck, Ma-ryang remembered the days of the Sino-Japanese War, when he had walked without end.

Set beside those days, this is nothing.

He thought of the road of that rout: Nationalist troops crushed by the Japanese, and he leading them back all of two hundred kilometers.

When they came around the intersection in front of the Gwanghwamun Post Office again and turned toward Yongsan, he saw Soon-young standing at the roadside. She was with Jin Hyun-kyung, who had only just joined Cheongsan, and she waved and shouted.

"Honey! Get to Daegu safe! Buy apples on the way back!"

For a second he could only stare, dumbfounded. Once they had passed her, he burst out laughing.

Out of her mind. How I ended up living like this with a woman like that, I'll never know.

The happy smile did not leave his face for a long while.

Shim Hansu, riding in the last truck of the column, saw Soon-young too as they turned left past the Gwanghwamun Post Office. She picked him out as if she had eyes in the back of her head.

"Mr. Hansu! Have a good trip to Daegu! When you get back, let's eat together!"

"Yes, Young Madam!"

He waved to her. Once they had cleared the intersection and the truck had straightened toward Yongsan, the driver asked, "Chief Shim. Who's the woman standing next to the young madam? Doesn't look like the elder madam. She looked five-seven if she was an inch. Do you know her?"

"Don't know."

Hansu answered short and tried to find, in the side mirror, the place where she had stood. It was already gone from sight.

"Tall and slim, and a real beauty. Isn't she new at Cheongsan?"

"Enough chatter. Drive straight."

"Yes, Chief."

From the moment he had seen her, Shim Hansu's heart had hammered as if he had been startled. They had a long road to Daegu, and the tall woman kept rising in his mind until he could hardly hold a thought together.