10. Three Rounds of Training in the Military (18 months)
Two years have passed since I joined the military. During this time, Park Ji-gang, the head NCO, and his peers were discharged. Park Gwang-mo, a native of Pyongyang, became the new Head NCO. As the North Korean saying goes, “Only after having the second daughter-in-law do you appreciate the first,” there were many ways in which the new head wasn’t as good as the previous one.
Park Ji-gang lacked the skills to manage both soldiers and non-commissioned officers and often put personal gain above the group’s benefit. We had left our parents and beloved hometowns far behind, and at the guard post, we were educated to trust and rely on each other. We were urged to build friendships like the bond between parents and children, believing this would help us become a strong, revolutionary army. He definitely wasn’t a good example of this. Nevertheless, he was our boss and the face of our company.
There are some regional stereotypes in North Korea. Pyongyangites are said to avoid hard work, preferring to live under someone else’s protection being city slickers. In contrast, people from Hwanghae province are seen as less shrewd. Based on my experiences with more than ten friends from Pyongyang while I was serving, I found them to be weak and likely to hide when faced with tough situations.
They are tall, good-looking, have good skin, and speak eloquently, but they tend to be weak in action and practice. In the military, steel-like discipline is crucial, but so is managing relationships and emotions through good communication. Unfortunately, Park Ji-gang lacked these communication skills.
Then, one day, on the recommendation of the company’s party organization and the battalion’s youth instructor (an officer from the battalion’s political department), I was sent to the Sarochong Workers Training Center (사로청일꾼양성소). The training period was six months, during which I would leave my base to study at the training school in Sadong District, Pyongyang. At the end of the program, trainees receive a certificate of completion and return to their main unit. The purpose of the educational institution, which exists in each corps, was to improve the qualities and abilities of the workers in charge of the battalion’s Sarochong and ultimately empower the youth projects.
During the six-month program, participants learn a variety of skills. They learn etiquette and behavior for meetings, how to write reports and decisions for events, how to reward exemplary soldiers and non-commissioned officers, receive combat political training, understand Sarochong organizational life, and address issues faced by soldiers dealing with family or personal problems.
In summary, the training aimed to create versatile problem solvers capable of addressing challenges in any situation. The Center’s mission was to cultivate workers skilled in training, speech, dance, and singing. Upon receiving the certificate after six months, trainees felt a distinct sense of pride, symbolized by a picture of Kim Il Sung on a red plate, unlike those from other educational institutions.
During the six months I was away, Ri Bong Nam from platoon 1 took over my position. Also from Hyesan like myself, he was the son of Ri Ki Chol, a long-time deputy director of the National Security Department (국가안전보위부) in Hyesan. Ri’s family, unlike mine, hailed from Partisan (빨치산), which was a prestigious background. His grandfather is Kang Kyong Sok, an anti-Japanese fighter mentioned in Kim Il Sung’s memoir “With the Century.”
After finishing the six-month training, I returned to the company with great ambition. However, my grandiose plans to put into practice what I had learned were abruptly disrupted. A new light infantry battalion (경보대대) was established in the former engineering battalion building near the Eobusan Reservoir (어부산저수지) and i was ordered to transfer to the battalion.
In North Korea’s military, the elite troops are the light infantry and reconnaissance battalions, often likened to the Marines or special forces in South Korea.
In my observation, each group in the light infantry battalion was more advanced with better trucks, weapons, and combat technology. Their training was stronger and more varied. They did a lot of mountain march training (산악강행군훈련), river-crossing training(강도하훈련), and martial arts(격술훈련) and dagger training(단도훈련). The unit required many skills, like quickly digging and hiding during camouflage training (위장은폐훈련), finding map coordinates accurately, and making fast, secret withdrawals. Although the training was very tough and I felt like my body was breaking, I felt proud and rewarded.
The military titles in the new battalion were slightly different from what I was used to. The salaries were also different, with newly joined light infantry soldiers earning much more than regular non-commissioned officers. We often had our pants torn, and it was rare for our hands, feet, and faces not to be bruised or bleeding.
Looking back, it’s hard to gauge the limits of human capability. Perhaps it was possible because we were in our energetic twenties. The training was so difficult and intense that many people dropped out after just a few weeks or months.
We wore sandbags on our arms and calves while running in the mountains or on the sandy banks of the Jongpan River, where our feet sank up to our ankles. We also did kicking and confrontation training (맞서기 훈련). Only at night did we remove the heavy sandbags before going to bed. Despite the numbness and lack of blood flow in our arms and legs, after months of training, we got used to the pain. When we finally removed the sandbags after six months or a year, it felt like our bodies were flying.
This experience was similar to the movie “Hong Gil-dong,” which many people in North Korea enjoy. In the movie, when Hong Gil-dong left his mother and learned martial arts from a master in the mountains, he wore metal bands on his arms and legs. After a few years, he removed the bands and could fly over a 4-5 meter tall pine tree. As young men full of energy, we made and wore sandbags like that.
At that time, there were no movie theaters or cultural centers in the battalion. Instead, all the soldiers gathered in the battalion restaurant, hung a white cloth on the wall, and used a projector from the back to watch movies. This kind of luxury didn’t exist on a regular base.
They mainly showed martial arts films. Every week, we watched battle movies to boost soldiers’ enthusiasm for combat. These included the Soviet spy film Seventeen Moments of Spring (17일 동안에 있은 일), Bruce Lee (이소룡), The Man Who Came Across the River (강을 건너온 사나이), and The Battle between Tiger and Dragon (범과 용의 대결). The movie about North Korean pro-wrestler Yok Do San (역도산), who defeated world-famous opponents, was also frequently played.
On the nights when these movies were shown, we couldn’t fall asleep. Instead, we had intense fight sessions on the moonlit sands of the Jeongpan River. Despite being bruised and swollen, it was a time of joy for us.
A year passed by unnoticed. One day, I was summoned to the company headquarters and informed that I would be attending the Military Academy (사관양성소) for six months in Soryong-dong, Daedong River District, Pyongyang. This intensive military training program aims to prepare future commanders. Approximately 5% of the company’s members were selected every six months to participate in this training.
Unlike the Sarochong Workers Training Center (사로청일꾼양성소), the intensity of the training at the Military Academy was so extreme that it earned nicknames such as “Sokdo Training Center” and “Shilmido,” reminiscent of South Korea’s spy training centers. Due to its severity, some soldiers were sent back to their original bases after only a month or two.
Reflecting on it now, daily life in the barracks was tougher than the military training itself. The educational nature of the institution meant strict adherence to rules from morning until night. For six months, I couldn’t move around freely. The school playground had marked white lines where specific actions were mandatory, even if no one was present to observe. Individual movements were restricted, and walking between places had to follow a strict hierarchy, even among peers of the same military rank.
In the end, the academy instills steel-like morale in soldiers, saying that they increase patience to endure pain physically. Sometimes they are beaten and assaulted. You can’t complain anywhere even if you’re beaten to a point where your face is bruised. In some ways, it’s better to get a few hits. It’s more difficult to stay up all night training, run in the sunlit playground, or do a regulated march.
No matter how much the cold winter general stomps on his feet to prevent spring from coming, the snow melts and the mountains and green shoots beautifully make spring. Just like the metaphor, I eventually finished the long six-month training program at the top of my class and finally returned to my beloved base.
Young recruits and low-ranking soldiers often struggle because they lack power and authority. However, soldiers with 4-5 years of experience would sometimes sneak into nearby villages for secret drinking parties with alcohol and meat. This was unimaginable at the Military Academy, which was surrounded by concrete walls. But once I returned to my main unit, I could finally do what I had long desired.
After getting back to my company, I spent three days relaxing and having drinks with my friends. The company and battalion commanders understand the hardships of the Military Academy, so they allow those who have endured the six-month training a bit of a break.
A week later, I received my new appointment from the division’s rank department (사단대열과). I was made a sub-squad leader with the title of Master Sergeant (상사). I was promoted faster than my peers, and I felt like all of my past pain was paying off. But soon, the tough training started again. The light infantry battalion required us to be extremely resilient and independent, training us to handle extreme conditions.
Today, many North Korean military units wear camouflage suits (also known as frog suits), but in the 1980s, these uniforms were only given to special soldiers like those in reconnaissance and light infantry battalions. These suits were meant for disguise and were used for scouting or attacking enemy camps.
At that time, the general public and even soldiers from other units feared those of us in camouflage suits. We were known for our extensive martial arts and other training, so just seeing our uniforms was enough to make others avoid confrontation.
General martial arts drills were tough, but the 1,000-ri (400-kilometer) march held once a year was almost unbearable. When ordered, we had to march to our destination day and night. The biggest challenge on a long-distance march was carrying the heavy gear. As we marched being sleep-deprived, our eyelids grew heavy, and we kept nodding off. To stay awake, we would even pull at our eyebrows to fight drowsiness.
During the march, all the food meant for a week or 10 days is often abandoned because of the already heavy gear. Shortly after leaving the starting point, we throw most of it away. When passing through residential areas, we sell the food to merchants at a cheap price without bargaining. We put the money in our pockets and use it to buy food later.
More often than not, we filled our stomachs by stealing from homes and cooperative farms at night. If we saw a chicken, rabbit, dog, pig, duck, or goose, we took it without hesitation. Usually, we did these raids at night to avoid being seen, but sometimes we even stole during the day. Looking back, I feel very sorry and ashamed for this.
Stealing and eating during outdoor training was a common practice. Even now, the situation is still tough. The people who were affected, like residents and farm workers, were angry but accepted it as part of their fate. Since this has been happening for decades, and many parents sent their children to the military, they understood the situation to some extent.
The march route often took us through high, rugged mountains. On one occasion, we passed by a turkey ranch that was kept for central party officials, and the turkeys quickly became our target.
Our four-member raid team sneaked up to the shed in the dark. We used Sapper Scissors, which are similar to fruit tree pruning tools, to cut the barbed wire and get inside.
A rafter of turkeys sleeping together made a lot of noise, squawking and pecking at our pants as we intruded. But we weren’t scared by their commotion. That night, we managed to capture 30 turkeys, which we strangled and placed in burlap bags to carry back to our hiding camp.
The neck areas of the turkeys came in various colors, turning red and blue, which made them look unattractive, but their meat was delicious. These turkeys, some of them weighed up to 9-10 kilograms, were typically served at high-level parties and banquets.
We couldn’t just eat the meat; we needed more to recharge our bodies and get some rest. So, we put 2-3 turkeys back in the bags and sent some of our more agile and persuasive soldiers down to the village below the mountain. In North Korea, it’s more common for people to make and sell homemade alcohol from corn and acorns than to buy from liquor factories.
The soldiers came back with 10 liters of alcohol and some rice. In exchange for the turkey meat, which is a rare treat for most people, the village seller provided us with the alcohol and rice we requested. While factory-produced alcohol in North Korea is usually 25%, homemade versions are often 40-45%. The 10 liters of this stronger alcohol was enough for our 12-member group to sleep well that night and continue our march the next day.
It was outrageous and embarrassing, but such corruption was still widespread. In North Korea, especially in the military, even commanders would half-jokingly say, “You can do anything as long as you don’t get caught. Not getting caught is what makes you a hero,” thus indirectly encouraging theft.
Since the breakdown of distribution systems that commanders and their families relied on, theft of food and kimchi-making vegetables became rampant, especially in the fall.
Hundreds or even tons of corn are stolen from a farm’s grain storage area in a single night, with most of it ending up in the homes of married officers. The same happens with cabbage meant for winter kimchi. Sometimes, feeling a bit sorry for the soldiers who stole the food, the commanders’ wives would provide them with candies, snacks, bread, and occasionally even alcohol and side dishes.
During the day, commanders and soldiers strictly follow the command structure within the unit. However, at night or when acquiring needed supplies, they often act like bandits without hesitation. Of course, not all troops and commanders behave this way, but many continue to engage in these illegal activities.
When I returned from the Military Academy, construction began on the highway between Pyongyang and Kaesong as part of the North Korean authorities’ Grand Nature Reform Movement (대자연개조운동). The popular slogan at the time was, “Let’s take charge of both homeland security and the great socialist construction” (“조국보위도, 사회주의 대건설도 우리가 다 맡자”). While some social and private enterprises might have been involved, most of the work was carried out by the military.
Each military base was responsible for a different area, and our section was around Wonhwa-ri, Pyeongwon-gun, in Pyongannam-do. It was early winter, and the biggest problems were board and lodging. The area was mostly empty plains, ridges, and lakes, and with tens of thousands of troops.
First, the troops set up accommodation using plastic sheeting before starting the construction work, eventually building semi-cave houses covered with rafters and plastic. Since there was no hot stone floor, we used a wooden stove instead, but it didn’t heat the space well. Staying there was quite cold. Soldiers not assigned to the construction site went to the nearby mountains to gather firewood. Those responsible for preparing meals had to make a laborious trip to a stream 300-400 meters away. They chopped a hole in the ice, and with frozen hands, scooped up water with a bowl, and used it to prepare the food.
About a year later, I left the construction site, but the remaining members continued to complete the work. With no machinery and far fewer supplies than needed, we had to act on the slogan, “self-reliance is the only way for survival” (자력갱생만이 살길이다)”, as taught by the party. This slogan is everywhere in North Korea, at every construction site and factory. In the absence of resources, self-reliance often led to illegal activities or misconduct.
For example, shovels and pickaxes were readily available at the marketplace, but barrels were hard to find. A barrel, made from thin iron plates, is used to carry about 20-30 kilograms of soil on a person’s back. Nearly every soldier needed one, but there weren’t enough iron plates available. So, soldiers would sneak out at night and steal iron plates from the Hwanghae Iron and Steel Complex (황해제철연합기업소) in Songrim City, North Hwanghae Province. Commanders often organized these thefts because there was competition between companies, and they needed to get the iron plates by any means necessary.
We wake up at 5 a.m., then quickly run to the stream in groups to wash our faces before finishing breakfast by 6 a.m. The soldiers on meal duty put rice in bowls for everyone before we wake up, but by the time we eat, the rice is often half frozen. Our side dishes usually consist of salted radish (무염장) and pickled cabbage (배추절임). The soup is typically made from dried radish or sometimes seaweed. Once a week, we have pureed soybean stew (콩비지) made from ground tofu beans.
The temperature is just right for eating if you mix the hot soup, freshly scooped from the kiln, with the half-frozen rice. After finishing the meal, we grab our construction supplies, raise a red flag at the front, and head to the construction site, which is 500-600 meters away.
For lunch, we usually eat rice and soup delivered to the snowy construction site. Work typically ends around 10:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m., after which we have dinner, wash our hands and feet, and then it’s soon midnight. In other words, we only get 5-6 hours of sleep each day while spending the rest of the time working at the construction site.
During the harshest cold of December and January, we were sweating so much that we worked in just our white People’s Army undershirt, having removed our outer top layers. Anyone around my age who was involved in building the Pyongyang-Kaesong Expressway at that time would share the same experience. Walking around wasn’t an option in an environment filled with energetic songs and slogans, where commanders’ strict looks made anyone who slowed down feel embarrassed. We stayed warm by constantly running, which also helped us avoid feeling the cold.
The construction site, crowded with workers, looked like a massive ant colony or beehive. When stretchers or barrels were unavailable, they carried soil in burlap sacks or tough cloth bags. A popular propaganda poster depicted a female worker who, exhausted and in tears, was crawling on the ground while dragging a burlap sack full of soil. The poster was titled, “Burlap Sack, Let’s Go to the Place Where the General Is (마대야 어서가자, 장군님 계신 곳으로).”
Back then, the food supply was decent. Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il, who had tasked the People’s Army with road construction, instructed party and government agencies to maximize their support. As a result, supplies were delivered by truck once or twice a week.
At that time, the Pyongyang General Bureau of Tourism (평양관광총국) was responsible for supporting our company, along with the Sarochong Committee in Wonhwa-ri, Pyeongwon-gun, which was close to the construction site.The Pyongyang Tourism Bureau was a relatively affluent department, so the support supplies were quite substantial. Each soldier received their share of rice, rice cakes, meat, chicken eggs, candy, and snacks. Additionally, they provided high-quality cigarettes, soap, toothbrushes, toothpaste, work gloves, and socks.
Although various supplies were distributed, cigarettes were often taken away by the command department during inspections for their own use, leaving only the food for the soldiers. All in all, I didn’t feel very hungry. At that time, party and government officials faced dismissal if they failed to adequately support military builders, so they did their best to ensure that all units received proper support.
The support from the Wonhwa-ri Sarochong Committee was also very generous. One day, around lunchtime, about ten young men and women appeared on the yet-to-be paved highway. They were volunteers from the committee who had asked to work with the soldiers. They were assigned to our unit, known for its high spirits and energy.
Since it was lunchtime, we were busy setting up our work tools and preparing food on the flattened ground. Our usual meal was put aside, and instead, we enjoyed a colorful feast brought by the Wonhwa-ri volunteers.
Although the meal wasn’t as fancy as what the Pyongyang Tourism Bureau might offer, it included home-grown chickens, homemade kimchi, and sticky rice cooked with millet and peanuts. It felt like a comforting, home-cooked meal.
During the meal, I noticed the Sarochong Chairperson, a young woman who was quite assertive and managed the men she brought with her. It was impressive to see her in action. Thanks to her, I was fortunate to enjoy a drink that day. At first, only the military officers had alcohol at a separate table, while we soldiers were not allowed to drink due to a ban at the time.
Then, Chairwoman Kim Bo-ok turned to us and asked, “Who is the Sarochong Committee chairman of this company?” I was standing there, wondering why she was asking, but my friends pointed to me and told her that I was the chairman of the Sarochong Committee. She approached me, gave me a friendly look, and asked me and my friends to enjoy the meal on another table. She discreetly unwrapped separate food packages, glancing over at the commanders’ side to make sure no one was watching.
As a result, five soldiers and I enjoyed the special food and unexpectedly had some high-end wine and beer. After eating, the civilians worked alongside us. Later, I found out that the ten-something civilians who came to the construction site that day ended up being bedridden for several days due to fatigue. Despite this, Chairwoman Bo-ok, who had worked hard with the soldiers, showed up to work the next day. She might have been unwell, but I believe that her sense of responsibility kept her going. Thanks to this experience, I stayed connected with Bo-ok for months after.
In the spring, after the snow melted, the company commanders were busy securing soybean seeds, corn seeds, and pumpkin seeds for planting in the company’s field. They were also obtaining livestock like rabbits and chickens. This effort was part of the principle of self-sufficiency. The party had instructed the military to solve the meat supply issue by farming and raising animals for each unit.
One day, I went to Wonwon-ri, which is 5-6 km away, to address the seed issue. This was based on instructions from the command to consult Wonhwa-ri Ssarochong Committee Chairperson, who had been very supportive visiting the road construction site regularly since their first visit.
Spring arrived a month earlier than usual in my Northern hometown, so the blue garlic shoots were already sprouting in the gardens of many houses.
When I arrived at the Wonhwa-ri office and asked for the chairperson, I was informed that she had just left for lunch. Following their directions, I found a small, solitary house, which turned out to be Kim Bo-ok’s.
Even after I was discharged from the military, many people who saw the photos I took with Kim Bo-ok in my album would ask if she was someone I loved. In a way, my life could have been different with a woman named Kim Bo-ok, but things didn’t turn out that way.
When I arrived unexpectedly, Kim Bo-ok was surprised. She introduced me to her father, who had just arrived at the gate. He seemed very kind and generous as well.
He greeted me warmly and said, “My daughter told me you’re a great chairperson in the military. I’m glad to finally meet you.” He then invited me to sit down. He went outside and came back with a handful of garlic shoots, about 10 cm long, still dirty. He placed them on a newspaper spread on the table and then brought in a basket of drinks from another room.
He expressed how happy he was to meet me and wanted to offer me a drink, even though there were no prepared side dishes. He thanked the army for their hard work. Despite my attempts to refuse, he filled a china cup to the brim with drink.
I still remember that day clearly: sitting down with freshly picked garlic, dipping it in red pepper paste, and drinking homemade rice wine. The simple, heartfelt hospitality of my hosts felt far more genuine than any luxury restaurant. Kim Bo-ok’s mother soon joined us, bringing tofu from a nearby shop and cooking rice freshly. It was a meal I enjoyed thoroughly.
After lunch, her parents went back to work, leaving us alone. I felt a bit nervous being by myself with Kim Bo-ok in the room.
She showed me photo albums from another room and agreed to let me see her personal space. Although the room wasn’t very big, it was very clean and clearly used by a woman. What stood out was how it was filled with books—more than half the room seemed like a small library with hundreds or even thousands of books.
In addition to North Korean literature, there were many foreign works, including The Communist Manifesto, Capital, How the Steel Was Tempered, and War and Peace. North Korea, influenced by Soviet political styles even during the anti-Japanese wars, had a lot of Soviet political literature at the time.
I was always envious of people with a lot of books and knowledge, both then and now. That afternoon, I went to Wonhwa-ri’s office to address the seed problems for my company. After the meeting, Kim Bo-ok invited me to dinner. Her parents had returned from work, and we enjoyed a meal together.
I left for my company around 9 p.m., and Kim Bo-ok walked with me through the moonlit rice paddy fields. She accompanied me almost to my company’s accommodation before I finally persuaded her to go back. She indeed went out of her way to help me meet my needs.
About a month later, I ended up leaving the construction site. Before I left, I visited Kim Bo-ok’s house again and said goodbye to her and her parents. A few days before I departed, she and a friend came to my company and asked if we could take a photo together. We went to a photographer’s house to have our picture taken.
At that time, I was focused on the bright future of my military service and could not reciprocate the feelings she had for me. Realistically, I could not keep her waiting beyond her prime years for marriage since I still had many years to go in the military.
I was ordered to return to the Military Academy just a year after graduating from the non-commissioned officer training. This time, I would be training to become the head of non-commissioned officers, a position that meant leading my company while being 3-4 years younger than many of the soldiers who had been serving faithfully for nearly a decade. This made me feel a bit uneasy, though I was pleased with the fast promotion. Nonetheless, it was a decision made by the head office, so I had to go back to the training center.
The previous training I completed a year ago was for becoming a non-commissioned officer, such as a staff sergeant or sergeant first class. This new training was to qualify me for the role of head of non-commissioned officers, where I would be responsible for the military life of 120-130 soldiers and non-commissioned officers within the company.
On the day I was leaving, I left the company’s semi-cave accommodation and headed to Pyongwon Station to catch the train to the military academy in Pyongyang. At the station, I was met by senior members from my company and battalion, as well as friends from neighboring units, including the Infantry Division and the Reconnaissance Company. I had gotten to know these friends through occasional martial arts competitions.
When the train to Pyongyang arrived at the station at 9 p.m., Kim Bo-ok and her friend came over to say goodbye. She looked very sad and had tears in her eyes. She had been waiting at the station but couldn’t approach me because I was surrounded by my friends who were almost throwing a party for me. When the train arrived, she finally came up to me, gave me a thick envelope and a package, and asked me to open the letter after the train had left.
It took me a long time to read and understand her handwritten letter. It was five pages long and included quotes from poems.
The letter was a heartfelt message of affection:
“Even though our time together was neither long nor short, thinking of you made my heart race. I didn’t want to leave you when we were together, and the thought of not seeing you again made me anxious. I wished I could help you achieve your great goals, and even though we didn’t even hold hands, I was very happy just to think of you. You will soar wherever you want, and settle wherever you choose, but I will always wait for you, like a port waiting for a full boat.”
When I unwrapped the carefully packed bag, I found a few thoughtful gifts: a fairly expensive pair of underwear, several neck covers (white cloths for the military uniform collar), a metal scrubbing cloth (for polishing the metal parts of the military hat or belt), a journal, and a Lanco wristwatch.
I stayed in touch with her through several letters during my military training, but that day when she greeted me with tears was the last time I saw her. I’m not sure how long she waited for me, but I hope and believe she eventually settled with someone else. Although I couldn’t bring the picture of us with me to South Korea, it remains the only photo I have with a woman from my military days. Now that I have grandchildren, I imagine she might be a grandmother too, if she’s still with us. I wish her a blessed life.
When I arrived at the military academy, all the familiar educators were still there. Everyone was pleased to see me return after a year. In particular, Ahn Young-soo, the political commissioner of the school, and Hwang Dong-ha, the PE instructor who handled martial arts, as well as the female staff from the restaurant and laundry room, greeted me with great enthusiasm.
Even though more than 1,000 people graduated each time, everyone still remembered me. At the regular military base, active-duty soldiers took turns cooking in the cafeteria. Meanwhile, about 30 female full-time workers were in charge of the meals at the school.
In the hog barn, the staff officer (참모장)’s wife and three other female workers took care of things. In the laundry room, five female employees worked, including the manager. The manager was the wife of Ahn Young-soo, the school’s political commissioner. Sadly, my connection with this family would become complicated later in my military service.
The academy had 11 educational companies, a guard platoon of about 30 people for security, a military clinic with around 15 medical staff, and a communications station.
This time, the training was much easier compared to before. As the Korean proverb says, “If you get beaten, it’s better to get beaten first,” the previous training had been so intense that this time it felt much easier. Additionally, military officers often overlooked some issues for those training to become heads of non-commissioned officers that comprised 1st Company.
We were different from the other companies because we were already experienced soldiers, having served in the military for some time, and were chosen from our units for our outstanding performance. While the other 10 companies focused on training in their specific fields of expertise, the 1st Company concentrated on command and management.
The head of non-commissioned officers (head NCO) is responsible for fostering revolutionary camaraderie based on loyalty to the party and the supreme leader and turning all soldiers into competent and well-rounded individuals. Additionally, the head NCO must establish principled and compassionate relationships with the soldiers and often serves as the chairman of the Sarochong Committee simultaneously. In essence, the head NCOs should excel in every aspect and set an example for about 120 soldiers. This training was somewhat similar to the one I had as the chairman of the Sarochong Committee years ago.
I went through 18 months of training, divided into three six-month periods. Most soldiers in North Korea are discharged without attending any military educational institution during their 10 years of service. A few get trained twice, but I went through it three times. While I often resented the hardships, I’m thankful to the commanders for giving me these precious opportunities.
In my company, many soldiers who were 2-3 years older than me had not yet become non-commissioned officers. So, it was a significant honor for me to return to the academy for training to become a head NCO. This training felt quicker and more enjoyable compared to my previous non-commissioned officer training. I also had the chance to reconnect with old friends who had been classmates and competitors in martial arts matches.
After completing another challenging six-month curriculum, the graduation exams began. These exams were designed to assess our political, ideological, military, technical, and cultural moral qualities before we returned to our units. Saying goodbye was emotional, and I had trouble sleeping in the days leading up to our departure, as memories of our time together replayed in my mind.
Ultimately, I returned to my original base in Chaesong-ri in Chunghwa County. I graduated with the highest grade from the 23rd military education for heads of non-commissioned officers. My spirits were high, feeling as if I had wings. Yet, it was uncertain where those wings would lead amidst the turbulent times ahead.