A hundred fifty miles south of Seoul on the littered and burning outskirts of Taegu, long spirals of thick, blackish smoke-rubber tires burning — there was a no-man’s-land, not yet reached by the NKA but abandoned by the retreating ROK forces trying to consolidate the perimeter a few miles south of the city, the distant thunder of the NKA artillery unrelenting. James Law, a World Press photographer, was tired and disgusted with himself. Despite his best efforts he always seemed to be a half hour behind the action. The only people moving through now were terrified refugees, women crying, exhausted, some with babies strapped with blankets to their back, moving in a kind of shuffling half run, energy long gone but still going out of sheer terror. But the world had seen countless women and babies in countless wars. He called over two boys who, like so many others he’d already seen, didn’t seem to belong anywhere, as if appearing out of nowhere, scavenging through the rubble for food, clothes, anything they might barter away, including themselves. They were crouching over the body of an American GI, stripping it bare. As he approached, they started to run, but he held up his hands, patting the air to calm them. “You boys speak English?” They both looked at each other, frightened and suspicious. Finally one of them nodded. “Hello — how are you?”
“I’m fine,” said Law, smiling. “Listen—” He peeled two ten-dollar notes from his billfold. “You like?”
“Sure.”
“Okay—” Law looked about, indicating to them that he wanted something on which to write. They produced a few scraps of paper.
“No, no,” he said. “Big. Over there — boxes. You savvy?”
“Hello?”
“Here, I’ll show you. The packing box.” He stamped it flat and made a writing motion. One of the boys pointed to Law’s shirt pocket.
“No, no,” said Law. “No pens. Too small. Something big— super-duper.” One of the boys started to run toward one of the fires and came back with a block of soft charcoal.
“Now you’re talkin’,” said Law. “Good boy. Now here, hand me the carton.” He ripped it in half. Taking the most ragged part and using the piece of charcoal, he printed in a childish hand, “WE HATE AMERICANS. YANKEESS GO HOME.” He poured some water from the dead man’s canteen into a Kleenex and squeezed it under one of the boys’ eyes. He took ten shots with the ASA400 film, shooting half on f 16 and half on f8 as backup, and three with the Polaroid, one of which was very good because it showed the boys really scowling, their eyes full of hate, getting the American’s corpse in nearby and violating the old World War II photographers’ taboo by making sure the puffy face was plainly visible — flyblown and blood-congealed. Law heard the crack of a rifle, and the next minute shots were whizzing nearby. ROK or NKA, he didn’t care. He got into the jeep and took off, the two boys running into what had once been a bakery shop, its counter covered in glass and spilled flour that looked like snow.
When Law reached the Pusan office, he sauntered in, announcing to the army clearance officer that “I just got a shot you wouldn’t believe. Christ, make you sick.” He showed the officer one of the Polaroids, which he knew he could use to jump the fax line if the wire service dispatcher deemed it good enough.
“Jesus,” said the dispatcher. “This won’t get past the censor.”
“Christ, it’s not a military installation. We’re in a war. What are we talking here? Another Vietnam cover-up? That’s the way it is, Sam — that’s the way it is.”
The censor passed it, Law checking to make sure the photo credit was well within the fax-sized paper.
Within an hour it was the photograph of the Korean War; two Korean youngsters, crying in their sorrow, shouting their hatred for the United States, and pleading for it to stop the war — to get the hell out of their country.
In Moscow it came in over the wire from the Soviet Embassy in Washington and was rerouted to 2 Dzerzhinsky Square. These days Chernko was staying there, a cot set up in the annex to his fourth-floor office. He took the photograph to the major, who awoke, startled, from an early morning nap after having been up all night.
“Good,” he said. “Very—” Then he saw the photo credit: James Law. “Gospodi!”— “My God!”
“You see, Major,” said Chernko. “Now it pays off, eh? All the training. The waiting.”
“Yes,” agreed the major. He had difficulty recalling Law’s face, as he had been one of the early illegals they had shipped over in Gorbachev’s time.
The director was walking away, holding the photograph high. “Power of the press.”
In Washington protestors had already started to gather about the White House, the photo galvanizing opposition to the war.