REPORTER’S NOTEBOOKBack to training in South Korea's reserve forces

The Korea Times reporter Park Ung poses at Donong Station, Gyeonggi Province, Monday, after completing reserve training. Handout photo supplied by Park Ung

It began with a curious observation: young men in military camouflage, not with the brisk stride of active-duty soldiers but a more relaxed presence, often seen lingering near Seoul's bustling subway stations or bus stops. It was a familiar uniform, one that I, too, had worn as an Air Force military police officer between 2017 and 2019.

Within a short time, I would gain an intimate understanding of their quiet patterns, as I was recalled to duty.

This recurring scene reflects a fundamental reality of Korean life: For every able-bodied man, military service extends far beyond mandatory active duty. For eight years afterward, former soldiers remain obligated to fulfill mandatory reserve duty, returning periodically for training in a cycle that keeps the nation perpetually prepared.

Reservists disembark from a K-21 armored vehicle during training in Hongcheon, Gangwon Province, May 30, 2024. Yonhap

With more than 2 million reservists, South Korea has one of the largest reserve forces in the world. Men who complete active duty must attend annual training for the first six years after their discharge. The number and type of sessions vary depending on factors like unit assignment and years of service.

As my return to military life loomed, a question quietly gnawed at me: Could a day spent in mandatory military training genuinely be preferable to a typical workday?

If it were April or October — when Korea’s weather is at its most pleasant and you’re either eager for exercise or recently inspired by a war movie — then heading to training might seem like the better choice.

But this was decidedly not one of those days. It was a hot, sticky July morning, thick with the promise of more heat.

My arrival at the training center shortly after 8:30 a.m. quickly dissolved any lingering civilian identity, assigning me to Platoon 27 as Soldier No. 9. The first site, a mock combat zone meticulously designed to mimic mountainous terrain, already swarmed with dozens of reservists, their collective groans a testament to the oppressive July heat.

The day’s schedule included six sessions: a security video and quiz, basic rifle marksmanship, infrastructure defense, response to nuclear and chemical threats, urban combat training and field maneuver drills. Each session was graded, and the higher a platoon’s total score, the earlier they could go home.

Reservists receive rifles during training in Chuncheon, Gangwon Province, June 21, 2022. Yonhap

Both urban combat and field maneuver drills used an electronic simulation system. Rifles were fitted with laser modules, and sensor vests registered hits, temporarily disabling gear for 30 to 60 seconds, depending on the simulated injury.

The field maneuvers felt surprisingly real: Smoke grenades were deployed and hidden speakers blasted convincing gunfire sounds through the trees, making it genuinely difficult to spot camouflaged "enemy" soldiers in the thick foliage.

After that first drill, an unexpected lesson emerged — should conflict truly arise, I'll be prioritizing breakfast. Sprinting through hills in a bulletproof helmet and tactical vest, rifle in hand and on an empty stomach, proved a brutal introduction.

Our unit then shifted to the urban combat zone. Here, in a mock city constructed from stacked containers, the unspoken fantasy was perhaps to channel one's inner John Wick — that slick action hero clearing rooms — as we embarked on a mission to capture key enemy positions.

Reservists conduct urban combat drills at a training center in Namyangju, Gyeonggi Province, March 4, 2019. Yonhap

At noon, the call for lunch finally came.

After hours of sweating through combat drills, the 8,000-won ($5.83) lunchbox tasted like a Michelin-starred feast. I shared the meal with Moon Geon-ho, 23, who completed his service last year. Moon had traveled an hour and a half for the training, having deliberately chosen this scorching July session over a closer November alternative to avoid missing his university classes — a dedication that, in that moment, felt quintessentially Korean.

Then came a small reprieve.

As the perceived temperature on site hit a sweltering 32.5 degrees Celsius, an instructor announced the afternoon's outdoor sessions were canceled, replaced by indoor video training.

But there was a catch: All reservists were still required to complete marksmanship training. Since our unit hadn’t completed the shooting session that morning, we had to head back outside.

Troops demonstrate shooting stances at a reserve training center in Seocho District, Seoul, May 31, 2022. Yonhap

The acrid scent of gunpowder hit me sharply as I entered the range. Lying prone, I stilled my breath, aimed and gently squeezed the trigger. Four out of five shots found their mark.

That essentially marked the end of training. The afternoon was spent watching videos on North Korea’s nuclear capabilities and urban combat. The moment we were dismissed, exhausted reservists around me suddenly sprinted toward the bus stop like Navy SEALs on a mission — a mission to get home.

For many Koreans, the purpose of reserve training is often viewed through a dual lens. As Park Ji-heon, 27, articulated, while the process is widely regarded as a “hassle,” it is simultaneously perceived as necessary.

“I hope war never happens,” Park said. “But the number of active-duty soldiers is now very low (due to the low birthrate). If something breaks out, it’s going to be up to the reserves to step in.”