Chapter 149
Chapter 149
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 149
Chapter Title: [Side Story] Boiled Life (3)
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****
When does a person cling most desperately to life?
When they've set some grand life goal?
When they want to save someone?
.
.
.
.
No. I guarantee you, a person becomes more obsessed with life than ever when facing a hail of enemy bullets.
‘I want to live.’
That was the first thought that hit me as the sun rose, illuminating the surroundings, and tears suddenly poured out unbidden.
Sunlight streamed through the dozens of new holes in the barracks like thin beams. All of them were fresh from yesterday.
“....Roll call.”
“No need. Palmer and Doris’s spots are empty.”
“I know that, you fucking bastards! I just want to hear the voices of the survivors, so shut up and do roll call!”
“....Sergeant Liam Olson.”
“Samuel Marsetti.”
“Do it right, miss. Staff Sergeant Doris Lisha.”
“Corporal—”
.
.
.
.
“P, Private First Class Professor....”
With my rank and name last, a heavy silence settled over the barracks.
The gunfire that had torn through the dawn.
The enemy forces pushing through the double and triple-layered booby traps and outposts.
No combat boots, no uniforms, no personal rifles—we’d followed Squad Leader John with just a radio on our backs, sprinting through the bullet-riddled jungle. The boots I’d inherited were torn front and back, modded into sandals, and running in them had shredded my toes, covered them in gashes.
“....Fuck. You all busted your asses to save your own skins. Especially M.J., you cracked those grenades like a pro. Your Red Sox-level pitching saved half the guys here.”
“Puhahaha, that was the last of ‘em too. No grenades left in the platoon.”
“Damn it. Doris and Palmer can wait a bit then. We’ll link up soon. Hey! Everyone, grab your stuff!”
At Squad Leader John’s order, the platoon members—exhausted and slumped on their bunks—cursed as they rummaged through their personal lockers for random odds and ends. Someone grabbed still-usable underwear, another a half-dried pen. A bullet-riddled vest.
The items the platoon pulled out piled up into supplies for two people.
The blond, blue-eyed middle-aged sergeant, Liam, pulled out a palm-sized Bible instead of personal effects. Under the light pouring through bullet holes, a small mass for the departed comrades began.
“Father in heaven, guide the weary and burdened. The world is steeped in war and tribulation. Have mercy on our brothers drowned in blood and murder, do not cast them away....”
‘This won’t do.’
The Professor, eyes quietly closed, wasn’t thinking of mourning. Other thoughts filled his mind.
What he’d seen following John: outposts doubling as trenches built in each direction. They’d been turned into machine-gun nests, but ammo had run dry long ago, leaving them as mere trenches. If just two high-ground nests had functioned properly, they could’ve repelled the enemy without casualties.
The troops’ condition was a problem too. Starving soldiers surviving on one can of canned goods per rest day. Even though the enemy looked far more trained, his side tired out fast. No food meant no stamina left. There was a reason they lounged lazily during the day.
‘At this rate, we all die.’
The Professor pondered what he—who was worse at stamina and shooting than them—could do.
Unlike the near-starving men, he still had strength left.
Front: enemy. Rear: allies no better than lone executioners surrounding the 14th Special Ops.
To live, he had to save them.
Even as the prayer ended and Squad Leader John distributed the two shares of supplies to those who’d bet on them when they first arrived, the Professor’s thoughts didn’t cease.
****
Fifteen minutes later.
John returned from distributing supplies with even more in his arms. The 3rd Platoon, hit first in the enemy raid, had lost four; the 1st had lost one.
‘I guess I’ve got no talent for gambling.’
That was Luwill’s line as he burned the “newbie survival betting” list made when the dead platoon member arrived.
“Ah, the helmet size is all wrong. Doris’s fit me perfect since our heads were about the same.”
He’d returned to the platoon feeling sour about handing out the other platoon members’ effects, and the gloomy troops suddenly snickered, eagerly dividing up the supplies like it was nothing.
“Holding onto a dead guy’s stuff just makes you think of him.”
“I wasn’t that close to the guy.”
“Matty was.”
John pointed at Matty, still dabbing tears with the handkerchief he’d made himself. Normally, keeping a dead man’s stuff brought memories flooding back, so for close platoon mates, they passed it to other platoons to keep it out of sight—turning it into this betting tradition. Most of his own gear—the uniform, ammo belt, boots—came from dead guys in other platoons. That’s how the 14th Special Ops worked.
John grabbed a decent uniform and boots from the generous pile of other platoons’ effects. He’d run through the jungle with the Professor, and the kid’s bloodied feet had stuck in his mind.
‘Hm?’
But the guy who’d been holed up on his bunk when he left the barracks was nowhere in sight.
“....Where’s the newbie?”
“Dunno. Guy with fucked-up feet was in a hurry—grabbed his clothes and knife and bolted.”
“I saw himmm. He ran off into the jungle by C outpost, over there.”
“....Desertion, huh. Why didn’t you stop him, Matty?”
“Stop him how? Lock him up somewhere?”
John had no choice but to nod at Matty’s words.
‘Shame.’
Still, he got it. Seventeen years old—that’s an eighth-grader still in high school back home. A kid who hadn’t even entered society thrust into war; losing it was understandable.
The platoon seemed to get it too. Hadn’t they thought of deserting themselves? It wasn’t that they didn’t want to; they couldn’t. To HQ who assigned them here, the 14th Special Ops were disposable trash turned into cheap alarms or breakwaters.
HQ had ordered shooting at any movement beyond their defensive line. With the 14th barracks protruding way forward, it was basically “come and die.”
“Hell, I was hoping he’d slip out safe. Honestly, kid was shook—curled up with eyes shut even after prayers. Makes my heart ache thinking what’s going through that young head, y’know? Wanted to give him a big hug, but looked away a sec and poof, gone.”
“Lucky C outpost direction—they disarmed all the traps coming in. Kid timed it well.”
“Yeah. At least we won’t have to clean up his corpse.”
They brushed it off with jokes and quickly forgot the boy who’d briefly been their new family.
Until the Professor returned, lips swollen, arms full of some weird grass-like stuff.
That evening, as the Special Ops folks gathered in the 1st Platoon barracks like usual, hearing about the Professor’s desertion and reaching for hot bean cans—
“Put mine up there too, John.”
Someone lifted the tent flap, plopped into 3rd Platoon’s empty spot.
Pale as a ghost, lips puffy, but unmistakably the young newbie they’d just heard deserted from the squad leader’s mouth.
“Kid! You.... didn’t desert?”
“Pfft! Desert? You think that psycho Medichi would just let me? He’d shove me into some death trap for sure.”
“Then why’d you suddenly....”
“Why?”
Rustle!
Grumbling, the Professor dumped the armful of grass by the fire.
“Went to scrounge some dinner sides. Survived by the skin of my teeth just to starve?”
In front of the stunned troops staring like he was a zoo monkey, he brazenly scooped a big spoonful from John’s can, shoved it in with the grass roots, and chomped.
“E-eat it!”
“Goddamn it! Kid! Spit it out! You think no one’s tried that? Chuck, Billy, Nelson—all turned blue and died!”
“Don’t eat random shit you don’t know!”
Ignoring the platoon’s protests, the Professor chewed the grass and beans, swallowing down his throat.
Gulp.
The platoon’s eyes followed his bobbing Adam’s apple. Once it cleared, they leaped up and piled on him.
“That bastard! He actually swallowed!”
“Make him puke! Someone grab Shepherd’s socks!”
“Urk, ugh! Let go, you assholes! I’m fine! That’s 100% safe!”
“Four guys already died eating jungle mushrooms or fruits they thought were fine!”
“They didn’t know! I do—I’m sure!”
No matter how he explained, they ignored him—doing Heimlich, shoving socks down his throat—causing chaos. But as time passed and he stayed fine, they peeled off one by one.
Company Commander King, the major who’d watched quietly, stood, picked up a root, examined it closely, then brought it to the Professor, still huffing from the wrestling match.
“Private First Class Professor. Do you have expert knowledge of jungle plants? Just fine now doesn’t mean later. One wrong move with poison, and the whole 14th Special Ops wipes out.”
“....Not expert level. But that’s definitely safe.”
Crunch!
I took the small root piece from the major and chewed it demonstratively.
“It’s reed. Not just jungle stuff—reeds from wetlands worldwide. Shoots and roots. That’s what I gathered.”
“Reed?”
“Reed.... like near our hometown?”
“Parks had tons—edible?”
Murmurs, whispers!
As the suspicious troops grew noisy at “reed,”
Clatter.
John, who’d quietly listened to the major and Professor, slyly stood, pulled the reed shoots and roots by the fire toward him.
Gulp.
The fresh green tender shoots and roots the color of sweet potato flesh looked utterly harmless.
His bean can, emptied after a couple spoons. The horrific hunger that’d return after a sip of water.
The thought “this is edible” took over John’s mind, and without realizing, he grabbed a handful.
Crunch!
Shoved it all in his mouth.
Crunch, crunch crunch!
Gulp.
.
.
.
.
.
He ate.
Earthy smell, slight bitterness, faint fishy whiff....
“Tastes.... edible.”
Sweetness, powdery as you chewed, filling the stomach solidly.
“Edible.... you say?”
“Girlfriend once bought weird root veggies for ‘wellness’ or whatever—felt like that. Or like flour in water....”
“So not just edible—real food? In Korea, they call it reed root, lu gen or something, use it as medicine too.”
Before the war, during exams, Mom made some herbal tonic “full of good stuff” from somewhere.
Tasted so bad I looked up what was in it.
Lu gen (蘆荀). Reed root.
Wandering the jungle past sketchy mushrooms and soapy-smelling grass, how welcome the familiar reeds were.
I’d whooped, dug the soft wetland by hand—roots just like online pics.
“Thanks to that, I was sure it’s edible. Grabbed this in a rush, but I recall a few others from books and net. Got time later, I’ll test ‘em one by one.”
The murmuring troops quieted—not calming, but focusing like predators on prey.
Expert-sounding knowledge from the young Asian boy. Empty cans and growling bellies teamed up, survival instinct maxed—the fear of poison faded from the 14th Special Ops’ minds.
Plus, seeing John—who’d stuffed a mouthful—hugging the rest and inching back was proof enough.
It’s safe.
We’re eating.
Food! Meal!
“Hey, Shepherd.... put that down.”
“We’re all in the same unit, no need to fight.... right?”
Slink, slink.
Scamper!
“Son of a—!”
“Shepherd bolted with the food!”
The black-skinned squad leader chose vanishing into the night with the chow over replying.
“Grab him!”
“Shoot him!”
Hunger-blinded troops flipped out, chasing Shepherd out the tent. In seconds, only me, the major, and Luwill remained in the now-empty 1st Platoon barracks.
Crunch!
Luwill, munching a long reed root he’d snagged who-knows-when, eyed it approvingly and asked me.
“Kid. This stuff—plenty around?”
“Looked around. Harder to find a wetland without ‘em.”
“Yeah?”
At my answer, Luwill tossed a root to the major.
“Then we can share. Major King, looks like we might live a bit longer?”
The major bit deep into the caught root instead of answering.
Fresh food taste after nearly two months.
Thirty minutes later, seeing the troops return mud-caked, arms full of whole untrimmed reeds, singing— the major had to agree with Luwill.
****
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