There are two things about Korea you never forget.

The first is the roiling mishmash of stinks. That May, there was the bitter stench of tear gas, an essence of spring and fall, since Korean students are what you might term fair-weather protesters. There was the ripened aroma of kimchi, a spiced and aged cabbage that makes your nostrils think your upper lip’s plagued with gangrene. On top of that was the acrid odor of garlic, the lifeblood of every Korean. Finally, there were all the smells of careless progress: smog, construction, and human sweat.

The second thing you never forget is exactly how miserably steamy a Korean late spring day can be. My shirt was pasted to my back before I got halfway across the tarmac to the flight building of Osan Air Base.

I dashed straight through the entry and shoved aside a sputtering Army captain who was rooted like a potted plant waiting to meet and greet me.

“Major Drummond, I, ooof-” was all he could manage before he crashed up against the wall. Then I heard him skittering along behind me.

I moved my stiff legs as fast as I could, till I spied the door I so desperately sought. I lunged through hard enough to blow it off the hinges; the captain scurried right behind me. At the urinal I got my zipper down not a moment too soon. Another millisecond and the jig would’ve been up.

My escort propped himself against the sink and studied me with an awed expression. “Jeez, you should see your face.”

“You got no idea.”

“Long flight, huh?”

I put my left hand against the wall. “Long ain’t the half of it. Know whose neck I’d like to wring? The miserable bastard who broke the only toilet in the C-141. I’ve had my legs crossed since the Alaskan border.”

“Well, you’re finally here,” he consoled, grinning like a fool.

“I guess I am.”

A full, awkward thirty seconds passed before he nervously tapped his leg. “My name’s Chuck Wilson. I, uh, I’ve been told to pick you up and escort you to Seoul.”

“Hey, that’s great, Chuck. Why?”

“Huh?”

“Why are you taking me to Seoul? Why am I in Korea in the first place?”

An exquisitely befuddled look popped onto his face. “I got no idea, sir. Why are you here?”

The stream of urine flooding out of my body had not abated one bit. I got worried. Has anybody ever pissed himself to death?

I didn’t ask him that, though. I said, “If I knew that, why the hell would I be asking you?”

He glanced down at his watch and said, “You okay, Major? It’s been over a minute.”

“No, I’m not okay,” I complained. “My hand’s tired. This damn thing’s so big and heavy. Can you come over here and hold it for me?”

We both chuckled a little too emphatically, like real men do whenever any topic arises even remotely touching on homosexuality.

“Sheeit,” he drawled in a deep, manly way, “some things a man’s gotta do hisself.”

“Damn right,” I firmly pronounced.

He averted his eyes while I gave Ol’ Humungo a manly shake, reholstered, and got my zipper back up. “Okay,” I said, moving to the sinks and splashing some water on my hands and face, “let’s find my bags and get outta here.”

“Forget the bags,” he said. “My driver’s getting ’em.”

We went out, and a husky young corporal named Vasquez was standing proudly beside a spanking-new black Kia sedan with lots of gleaming chrome. I made him open the trunk so I could peek in, and sure enough there sat my duffel bag and oversize lawyer’s briefcase. Then Wilson and I climbed into the backseat.

“Well, ain’t this the plush life,” I remarked, running an admiring hand across the leather upholstery. “I figured you’d get me in a nasty old humvee.”

“Not unless I got an armed escort.”

“Armed escort?”

He gave me a curious look. “Haven’t you been reading the papers?”

I said, “Hey, Chuck, see these shorts and this ratty T-shirt I’m wearing?”

“Yes sir.”

“This is what’s called formal attire in Bermuda. See, that’s where I was until, uh, oh” – I looked at my watch – “until about twenty-eight hours ago. Know what’s so great about Bermuda? No? Let me tell you: No newspapers. No TVs. No cares in the world but which beach has the skimpiest bikinis and which bar’s having a two-for-one special at happy hour.”

He nodded right along. “Yeah, well, things aren’t so blase over here. We’re drowning in anti-American riots. It’s gotten so bad we’re restricted to our bases. No civilian cars with U.S. plates and no unescorted military vehicles are allowed outside the gates.”

“That why we’re in this Kia?”

“It’s less noticeable. And it took a two-star general to sign off on letting me come get you. I asked for a helicopter, but, no offense intended, they said you just weren’t that damned important.”

“A helicopter?” I asked, beginning to think this captain was a little over the edge. This was South Korea. These people were our allies, not our enemies.

Sounding not the least bit contrite, he said, “I know it sounds crazy, but, hey, the American embassy got firebombed two days ago. The ambassador actually got beat up. Bad, too. He had to be medevaced to Hawaii.”

With the worldly resignation of one who has spent some time in Korea, I said, “Look, anti-American riots are a popular local sport. You must be new. Trust me, Chuck, you’ll get used to it.”

Three seconds later, I ate my words.

We’d just crested a long, steep hill, and the back gate of the air base loomed only twenty yards ahead. The roof of our car suddenly sounded like it was exploding. The sound came from a shower of rocks that struck like pistol shots. I looked through the front windshield and saw three Molotov cocktails come sailing, end over end, through the air. Two exploded on the tarmac directly ahead. The third grazed off the trunk of our car and erupted right behind us. Two dozen military policemen were careening through the gate, flailing hopelessly with their nightsticks, shoving backward, and being chased by a huge mob of Koreans.

I’m no expert on riots, but I’ve seen a few. I once watched a bunch of Somali provocateurs trying to get a rise out of some American peacekeepers. That was a taunting kind of riot, not really meant to harm the peacekeepers; in fact intended to achieve the opposite: to get the peacekeepers so riled up they’d do something harmful to the crowd and end up looking like bad guys. The idea was to provoke an atrocity.

And as someone who lived through the Vietnam era, I witnessed my share of antiwar riots. Those “riots” were actually more like big frat parties with lots of kids showing up for the free dope and to get laid. Those kinds of riots, everybody walks on eggshells, and they do it in a real fretful way, because both sides are praying the other doesn’t do anything stupid. Atrocities are the last thing anybody wants.

The mob bearing down on us looked to be the third kind of riot: the bad kind of riot. The folks in this crowd had menace in their eyes and mayhem on their minds. Their faces were snarled with anger and hatred, and a lot of them were carrying bats, or Molotov cocktails, or throwing big stones. By the guardshack, two MPs were down, and several Koreans were gathered around kicking and beating them like they were snare drums.

Corporal Vasquez, the driver, jammed down hard on the brakes. He rubbernecked around to face us. “Hey, Captain, what do ya want me to do?”

Wilson craned forward and peered through the windshield. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully and studied the situation, and looked more thoughtful. His prolonged thoughtfulness made me nervous.

“Gun it!” I yelled.

“Huh?” Vasquez asked.

“Go!” I yelled.