Bridging a lifetime
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More than 50 years after Paul Johnston left Korea, a chance encounter in a Lincoln restaurant led him to a piece of his past he thought had disappeared.
By CINDY LANGE-KUBICK | Lincoln Journal Star
Twelve three-ring binders filled with memories line a cabinet in this southwest Lincoln home. The Korean War is inside Notebook No. 3.
Paul Johnston is writing a book for his children and grandchildren. The story of a Sandhills farm boy who grew up to wear a suit and fight for the rights of farmers and ranchers.
That year in Suwan, South Korea, that’s just a single chapter.
A chapter he closed long ago.
All except for one boy. A dark-haired Korean kid with a toothy grin and a quick mind. A boy who clung to the slim, sandy-haired sergeant’s hand when his discharge papers came. Begging.
Take me with you. Take me to America.
Paul can see him, running behind the truck, running until his legs can’t carry him anymore, running until the truck and Paul disappear.
As the years pass, then the decades, after he marries and becomes a father and a grandfather, Paul often wonders.
What became of Packy?
v v v
The boys come around to all the tents at the air force base. Street urchins, war orphans, most of them. The soldiers are glad to give them a few cents to polish boots.
One boy keeps coming by the tent Paul and his men share.
Park Ik Youl tells them he is 14. He shines their boots, lining them up in a neat row outside Tent Number 26.
Some of the other tents have houseboys to help keep their temporary homes in order. He asks his commander if they can hire a houseboy, too.
They choose Packy.
The soldiers bring back scraps of chow from the mess hall, enough to keep Packy fed. Sometimes he’ll take the money he’s saved and run to town, coming back smelling of strange spices, his belly full.
They buy him T-shirts and jeans from the black market. They place an order from the Sears and Roebuck catalog. When the cowboy hat and bandanna come, they take Packy downtown and have his picture taken at a studio.
The photo is tinged with color. Packy’s cheeks turn rosy and his bandanna glows a bright yellow, like a still shot from an MGM western.
He’s part of their Army family now. He’s sharp, so eager to please. He has no one. No family, no home.
Paul starts teaching him English. He points. Shoes. Shirt. Bread. Meat.
Packy repeats the words back.
Paul learns a little bit of Korean.
An young ha ship ni ka?
How are you?
In the mornings, Paul writes out math problems on a piece of paper. At night, when he returns, the tent is tidy, the problems solved.
Paul’s tour ends just before Thanksgiving 1952. He’s going home, back to the Sandhills and the farm, his folks and his future.
Packy holds his hand all morning. He carries Paul’s duffel bag to the truck. He has the paper with Paul’s address in Amelia, Nebraska.
Paul climbs into the truck bed, sitting on the end, his legs dangling, the boy standing beside him.
The engine catches and the truck filled with young soldiers pulls away.
The little boy runs and runs, waving, down the long dirt road, yelling an American word.
Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.
Sitting at his kitchen table on a late October day in 2005, the old soldier tells the story. He watches as the boy disappears from his sight and slides into his past.
Tears fill his eyes.
v v v
Paul and Maxine are sitting at a table for six. It’s spring 2005, and they’ve been invited to a financial planning dinner.
Chong and Yun Min sit across from them. They make small talk.
Where are you from?
Korea.
I was in Korea once, stationed in Suwan.
We are from Seoul, not far away.
Oh, sure, Paul says, I’ve been to Seoul before on leave. At the air force base in Suwan, we had a houseboy. I got awfully attached to that little guy.
I’ve always wondered what happened to him.
We’re going back in September, Chong tells him. I’ll try to find him.
Chong and Yun have lived in America for 33 years. Yun has visited her relatives many times, but this will be his first trip back.
He was a boy during the war. His family fled their home in Seoul and hid from the Communists.
Chong is an accountant now, a naturalized American. But he’s never forgotten his motherland or the soldiers who secured it. One of those soldiers is sitting across the table.
One night Paul and Maxine visit Chong and Yun at their house in south Lincoln.
Paul brings Notebook No. 3. He shows Chong the pictures of Packy shining shoes and posing in his cowboy outfit.
Chong takes copies.
v v v
What is the best way to find one person in a country of 48 million? The last name Park is common, like Smith or Johnson.
Go to the TV stations, Chong’s Korean friends tell him. Take an ad out in a newspaper. Call the radio.
He tries, but the story isn’t exciting enough. He goes to a police station in Seoul.
Sorry, the receptionist tells him, we are too busy.
I haven’t been back in 33 years, Chong says. I made a promise.
A lieutenant is listening. He motions Chong to his computer.
Spell the name. Date of birth?
Chong makes a guess. 1936.
The lieutenant types. Nothing.
1937.
No.
He types in more dates, widening the range: 1935 to 1940. One name appears on the screen. He clicks again. A driver’s license photo.
The lieutenant looks at the copies of the pictures from the war.
He stares at his screen.
v v v
The phone rings at 9:30 on a Monday night. Maxine answers.
I’m in my niece’s living room, Chong says. I have someone with me.
Paul comes to the phone.
An young ha ship ni ka?
Park Ik Youl has forgotten his English. Paul, now 77, has forgotten most of his Korean, but he recognizes those words.
How are you?
He answers back.
An young ha ship ni ka?
Paul talks and a man nods, 8,000 miles away.
Chong translates. Packy never left Suwan. He lied to the soldiers about his age. He wasn’t 14. He was 11 when he lived in the tent. He had escaped from the North, losing his family on the long walk south.
After the war, he became a chauffeur for a doctor. He married and had two sons. He became a grandfather. He drives a nice SUV.
When he heard the message from the police Friday, telling him to come to the station Tuesday, he couldn’t sleep.
At the station, Chong’s niece snaps a picture: A police lieutenant from Seoul and an accountant from Lincoln and, in the middle, a 68-year-old Korean man who once answered to the name Packy.
v v v
The letter arrives Oct. 15.
Since I got the phone call that you searched for me I have been looking back to my beautiful days with you. A long time ago, I lost your connection like an address, even your photo, too, because I had to move to new workplaces many times in a busy and difficult life …
I could just keep your name and memory about you in my heart.
I really miss your warm and kind face. If the distance between us is short, I would come to you right now, then I could bow to you …
Please be happy and healthy forever … My heart is still beating because of you …
Paul is writing his own letter, trying to keep a lifetime on two pages.
Chong tells Paul the South Korean government welcomes American GIs. The country has been rebuilt, back from the ashes.
Why not fly to Seoul in the spring?
Paul isn’t sure. He remembers a dismal place, scarred by war. Most of his memories are not happy.
It is a chapter he closed a long time ago.
It’s really amazing that you have been thinking about me for 53 years …
All except for one little boy.
Reach Cindy Lange-Kubick at 473-7218 or clangekubick@journalstar.com.
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