By Yun Chung

Pyongyang fell to the U.N. forces on Oct. 19, 1950. That day, I arrived at Haeju, North Korea, a stone’s throw away from Yeonpyeong Island.

I was a member of a student volunteer corps. Our mission was to help North Korean students transition to a unified democratic Korea. To introduce ourselves, I visited Haeju Girl’s High School with two men from my corps. I stood in front of many girls to greet them. The instant my eyes locked with one of them, I felt electrified. I fell in love with her, Jeong-hui. In December, the People’s Volunteer Army (PVA) from China pushed the U.N. forces back from north of Pyongyang to south of the Imjin River, near Panmunjeom. We were trapped in Haeju.

On the snowy evening of December 18, a South Korean Navy patrol boat arrived to get us out from Yongdangpo, a seaport six miles south of Haeju. I talked Jeong-hui into coming with me to Seoul. With her eyes only inches from mine, she shouted in a hushed voice, ``Yes, I will. I must first go to tell my parents I am coming with you. Wait for me! I will come right back to you. You know I cannot live without you!”

She dashed out. Gun shots rang out before she could get back to me. Local Reds started attacking us. I and my fellow corps men were ordered to run immediately to the port. I got there just in time as the Navy boat was leaving the dock. It brought us to Yeonpyeong Island, let us get off, and set out for another rescue mission. I’ve never seen or heard of Jeong-hui since. I hated the PVA for messing with Korea and my first love.

Several years went by. At a student picnic at Stinson Beach across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco, I was strolling, still thinking about Jeong-hui, stumbled, and fell over a woman student, who later became my wife. It was as if Jeong-hui tricked me into meeting her.

Last night, I watched ``Gasinamusae” (Thorn Birds), a KBS drama, after helping my wife into bed. When I turned out the lights in the living room to go into my space next to her, I noticed moonlight streaming through the window. As I saw a half-moon in the night sky, memories of Jeong-hui at a fishing harbor near Haeju rushed up. There, under a half-moon, she was gazing at me for a longest time.

The half-moon triggers my memory of Jeong-hui at the harbor without fail. We were both 19 then, in Korean age. She always runs toward me as a 19-year-old schoolgirl with a short haircut. I become a 19-year-old boy myself, though both of us are now 80. I love my wife, too. Both loves are precious to me.

I stood by the window, looking up the half-moon and thinking about Jeong-hui. My heart ached because I never said, ``saranghae” (I love you), to her. As an old man, I say saranghae, to my wife, especially after she became weak from a stroke. As a 19-year-old boy, I was not accustomed to say the words and was too timid to say saranghae to Jeong-hui, though I wanted to, many times. I now want to say SARANGHAE to her, however belatedly, whether she is still around to hear me or not.

The writer, a retired engineer, lives in California. He may be reached at yunchung2@comcast.net.