by Martin Limon
Ernie offered them both a stick of ginseng gum. The driver stared at the packet with its Korean lettering and drawing of a ginseng plant and said, “You chew that stuff?”
“Good for the metabolism,” Ernie said, stuffing a stick in his mouth. “You punch one of the KNPs?”
“Wouldn’t you? They started to frisk us.”
“Did you have something to hide?”
“Like what?”
“Like reefer. Or maybe a bag full of money.”
“I got a bag,” the other guy said, grabbing his crotch, “but it ain’t full of money.”
Ernie and I checked the back of the truck, then the cab and the clipboard with the dispatch on it. Everything appeared to be in order. They were transporting damaged tank and artillery parts to a supply depot to be replaced.
“Just hold tight,” I told them. “Don’t do anything stupid. We’ll see what we can do.”
Mr. Kill had finished his conversation with the officer in charge. He stepped toward us.
“They’re checking every US military vehicle for money, gunny sacks, rifles, even camo sticks. Any signs at all that they’re the bank robbers.”
“Too late,” Ernie said. “Those guys have already returned to their roost.”
Kill nodded his head sadly. “But these Americans resisted, punched one of our officers.”
“Is he okay?” I asked.
“Just a bloody nose.”
“Would an apology work?”
Kill nodded and said, “It will have to.”
I returned to the two GIs and coaxed them toward a solution. After overcoming their initial reluctance, they stood before the officer who’d been hit to offer, if not an apology, at least an explanation.
“If you don’t,” Ernie said, “ain’t nothing we can do. You’ll be locked up in a Korean monkey house. Hope you like week-old kimchi and brown rice. When you chew, though, watch out for maggots.”
The two GIs looked at each other. Finally, the driver who’d thrown the punch said, “I’ll talk to him.”
As the GI and injured Korean policeman stood awkwardly in front of one another, I translated. The GI said he wished it hadn’t come to this, but once he was getting pushed around and frisked by somebody just for doing his job, it was only natural that he’d lashed out to protect himself. It wasn’t his fault. The Korean cops shouldn’t have stopped him.
Self-serving nonsense. But I translated his words into Korean with quite a bit of diplomatic license. It came out as something like, I’m sorry I hit you, I shouldn’t have done it, and I’ll be sure to show more respect for Korea and Korean law in the future. I spoke loudly enough so all the cops in the vicinity could hear. Both Mr. Kill and Officer Oh realized that my translation was less than exact but kept their faces impassive.
The wounded Korean officer paused for a moment, making sure that everyone absorbed this abject apology from the obnoxious foreigner. Finally, he nodded his head and barked an order. Quickly, the handcuffs were removed, and the two GIs, mumbling to themselves, climbed back into their truck. One of them was about to say something, but Ernie warned him to keep his mouth shut. Without further incident, the two GIs started the big deuce-and-a-half’s engine and sped away.
Mr. Kill told me, “You should be in the State Department.”
“Every American soldier is an ambassador for their country,” I said. “How long do you think this policy of stopping American vehicles is going to last?”
“Not long, if I have anything to say about it. Or we could wind up with allies shooting one another.”
As we made our way back to 8th Army headquarters, I sat in the passenger seat, gazing at the pedestrians still out in droves at this hour of night. Some were male office workers clutching attaché cases, still in their dark suits. Others were women in tight skirts and long-sleeved jackets. Even middle-school students were still out, lugging their backpacks around like brick masons hauling mortar. I’ve always been astonished at the industriousness of the Korean public. No sitting home staring at the TV for them. They had a country to rebuild.
And then I saw her. Or someone I thought was her.
A small figure silhouetted by the overhead lights in front of the Main Gate. Ernie pulled into the center lane and signaled left.
“What?” he said, noticing that I’d turned around.
She was walking away. Average height by American standards, about five-four. Strong shoulders, not as wide as her hips, though she was slim. Unusually so, in fact. Although she was just a vanishing shadow, I suspected she didn’t have an ounce of body fat on her. She gave off the impression that she could have a child in the morning, then outpace everyone in a rock quarry all day. Pure strength, I thought.
“What?” Ernie said again, exasperated. “Do you want me to turn around?”
Was I nuts? Was it a case of mistaken identity, or could it really be her? Even if it turned out to be a bust, I had to know. I shouted to Ernie, “Yeah, turn around.”
He did, hanging a U amidst a chorus of honking horns. We cruised down the block, Ernie swerving left again, me leaning forward to try to catch a glimpse of the mystery woman, but as we approached the buildings surrounding Samgakji Circle, there were too many pedestrians. Even if she’d been amongst them, I would’ve had trouble spotting her.
“Slow down,” I told Ernie.
He did. Enraged cab drivers zoomed past us.
He turned again, this time pulling off the main road. We cruised for a while through narrow side lanes, crowded with late-night revelers, women delivering laundry, coal merchants shoving pushcarts. If that had been her and she wanted to avoid us, we’d never find her. It was far more likely that it hadn’t been her, just a different Korean woman with the same build and demeanor, and that I’d never find her again in this city of eight million people.
“Who are we looking for?” Ernie asked.
I leaned back in my seat. “Nobody,” I said.
“Nobody?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I was probably seeing things. I’m pretty tired.”
Ernie raised one eyebrow and stared at me for a moment, but kept his mouth shut. He swiveled the wheel and wound us back to the main drag, hung a right, and bulled through traffic, eventually navigating us to the big arch over the main gate of 8th Army’s Yongsan Compound. After the MP waved us past the barricades, we entered the relative calm of the base, coasting past the evergreen trees lining the road.
“Home sweet home,” Ernie crowed. Within seconds, we passed somber brick buildings and the big flat-cement-block building of the 8th Army Commo Center until we were once again enveloped in gloom.
I couldn’t sleep.
I threw the blankets off my bunk, swung my feet over, and stood up. Grabbed the keys on the chain around my neck holding my dog tags and quietly opened my wall locker. Reaching inside, I unraveled my pants and shirt and slipped them on, located my jacket, and slid my feet into low quarters. Out in the hallway, I headed for the side door of the barracks and exited, walking briskly toward the Main Gate.
Ten minutes later I was waving to the Korean guard at the Pedestrian Gate and was outside on the main road amidst much lighter traffic. Only a few minutes until the midnight curfew, and anyone smart had already gone home. The dumb ones, like me, were still meandering about with no certain destination.
A ten-foot-high wall fronted the westernmost edge of 8th Army’s Yongsan Compound and then changing composition from stone to brick, continued along the front edge of ROK Army Headquarters compound. I stuck my hands in my pockets and walked.
Could it have been her?
There was a chance. She’d contacted me before. What I wanted and what she wanted was to be together as a happy family. Unfortunately, that was impossible as long as the Park Chung-hee regime was in power.
Her name was Yong In-ja. Doc Yong, Ernie and I usually
called her. She had been the head of the government health clinic in Itaewon, treating the Korean business girls for all sorts of maladies, including venereal disease and the bumps and bruises and broken bones from their GI boyfriends. Consequently, we’d worked with her on a number of cases. I appreciated her command of English, her vast intelligence, and most of all, her endless compassion for the ones who’d ended up slouched hopelessly on the hard-wooden benches of her waiting room. She and I discovered we had a similar love for books and ancient sijo poetry, and although we’d never gone on an actual date, Ernie and I ended up helping her on some of the criminal matters that arose from her efforts to assist her often set-upon underclass clientele.
Eventually, she and I had become intimate. I had hoped that our friendship and affair would result in marriage. And it would have, except for an obligation I didn’t know she had. From her parents, she’d inherited the leadership position of a rebel organization based in the southern province of Cholla-namdo. After they’d participated in an overthrow attempt, the Park Chung-hee regime had been hunting them down relentlessly. In their home city of Kwangju, far to the south, they were relatively safe. Anti-government sympathies ran high there, as they had for centuries.
To complicate matters, she became pregnant with our son, Il-yong, the First Dragon. I’d seen him a couple of times, when it was safe, but she’d convinced me that it was better for us to live apart. She could hide successfully in the southern Cholla province, amongst her compatriots, and Il-yong would be brought up safely. But I couldn’t look for them. An 8th Army CID agent in a part of the country that drew few foreigners would attract attention. The Korean National Police were everywhere, and they were on the alert for her and her group. If my presence led them to her, she would be arrested, tried in a kangaroo court, and in all probability, executed.
So the Park Chung-hee government, the one the US Army was here to protect, was keeping us apart. President Park was her greatest enemy and threat, and therefore mine, too, though the words could never be spoken aloud. Ernie knew everything, having put two and two together, but we never spoke of my dilemma. He knew better than to bring it up.
Why talk about a problem with no solution?
After passing the ROK Army compound, I wandered the streets and back alleys of Samgakji. I’m not sure what I was anticipating—Doctor Yong In-ja appearing from a dark alleyway, our son in her arms? I scanned the shadows, garnering odd looks from old ladies sweeping up the last remnants of debris and locking up the sliding wooden doors of their shops.
Finally, a cop stopped me. He asked me in Korean what I was doing out so late, and I pulled out my CID badge and showed it to him. My get-out-of-jail-free card. CID agents were exempt from the midnight-to-four curfew. After examining my badge by the glow of a penlight, he handed it back to me and saluted. I returned the salute.
But his interruption was enough to ruin my reverie. I was chasing a ghost, searching for a wisp of hope in a landscape where none existed.
I slipped my badge back into my jacket, stuck my hands into my pockets, and, head down, marched back to the main gate of Yongsan Compound.
The next morning was a Saturday, but most Army offices operated for a half day on Saturday. At least for the military people. Civilians—both Korean and American—were off on Saturday since they worked only a forty-hour work week. Riley was in the office reading his Stars and Stripes, but Miss Kim’s hangul typewriter was covered in wrinkled plastic. Without her, the office seemed dour, less full of life. But as it turned out, I was glad she wasn’t there to witness what came next.
Colonel Brace, the 8th Army Provost Marshal, was generally a mild-mannered man. Tough, but low-key. This time, when he bellowed from his office, he used the voice of a wounded bull, so loud that Riley snapped his head up and dropped his copy of the Stripes.
“Sueño,” the Colonel yelled. “Bascom. I want you in my office right now!”
Ernie and I looked at one another. Ernie said, “What’d we do?”
“You got me.”
Staff Sergeant Riley never missed a chance to be officious. He stood up from behind his desk. “NOW!” he said, pointing down the hallway. “You heard the man.”
“Sit on it and rotate,” Ernie told him. But we both rose to our feet and marched down the hallway, condemned men on our way to the gallows. Ernie leaned toward me and whispered, “Deny everything.”
Which is what I would’ve done, except I didn’t have the chance.
Colonel Brace, wearing his khaki uniform, stood behind his desk with his hands on his narrow hips. The flags of the United States, the Republic of Korea, and the United Nations Command hung from polished wooden poles behind him. He pointed to an unfolded newspaper on his desk. Ernie and I stepped forward to peer at it. “Advance copy. Hits newsstands tomorrow. The PX manager hand-carried it over.”
Gazing down, Ernie inhaled sharply.
It was the Overseas Observer. There, on a page-three spread, was a large black-and-white photograph. Of us. Me and Ernie. I recognized the place, although the shot had been taken at a sharp angle. We’d been a few yards away from Han’s Tailor Shop, and it must’ve been just after Mr. Cho had returned to his store, when the crazy woman had blinded us with her flashbulb. In the photo, Ernie and I looked completely caught off guard, having both turned to look at whomever had snapped the picture. In the distance behind us, clearly illuminated by the light of the flash, was a sign in hangul with a small-print English translation: the kukmin bank. That in itself wouldn’t have been so bad. So we were standing on a sidewalk in front of a bank. Who cared? But it was the article that made Colonel Brace hopping mad.
The story explained everything. The first bank robbery, the bank guard being slammed in the face with a rifle butt and suffering lost teeth and a broken jaw, the thieves escaping with over two million won, and the fact that both Korean and US law enforcement were completely stymied as to the whereabouts of the perpetrators.
The byline belonged to somebody named Katie Byrd Worthington. She was, I imagined, the woman who’d blinded us with her flashbulb when she’d snapped our picture. The headline said it all: gis rob korean bank. And below that in smaller font: bank guard injured. millions stolen.
In the body of the article, Katie Byrd Worthington noted that the millions in the headline were in won and not in US dollars, but when it came to the Overseas Observer, who read past the headlines? The caption beneath the photo identified both me and Ernie by name and claimed that we, the CID agents working the case, were completely baffled. Which was corroborated by, if nothing else, the confused expressions on our faces.
Colonel Brace jammed his forefinger into the photo. “You’re making us look bad,” he said. “Like morons stumbling around in the night.” He waited for us to defend ourselves. When neither of us did, he continued. “And worse: the local AP and UPI stringers are going to pick this up. They won’t take it at face value, but they’ll look into it and find out it’s true. And they’ll probably dig up the second robbery and the bank teller’s death while they’re at it. We are in deep shit!” Colonel Brace paused, breathing heavily, as if to regain control. “We had a handle on this,” he said, “but now it’s ruined. Because of you two.”
I was about to explain that it wasn’t our fault. That we were just doing our jobs, canvassing the area the way that Burrows and Slabem should’ve done in the first place. That this Overseas Observer reporter, Katie Byrd Worthington, had snuck up on us and practically attacked us to get that photo. If anybody was to blame, it was her. I was about to say all this, but then I stopped. No point. Colonel Brace knew all these things, or at least most of them. Right now was not the time to contradict a bird colonel, not when he was angry and venting hot steam from an open throttle. That was a mistake no veteran soldier would make. In his rage, he was liable to order us to do something he wouldn’t be able to take back. Even if he ended up regretting his directive, he’d feel obligated
to enforce it, if only to maintain the dignity of his rank.
Ernie, prime troublemaker that he usually was, also kept his mouth shut. Even he knew that when a man with as much power over our lives as the Provost Marshal was angry, the wisest course of action was to pucker up and take the ass-chewing, no matter how unfair.
When Colonel Brace regained a semblance of self-control, he said, “And there’s this!” He grabbed the edge of the paper and flipped to the front page. As he did, I wondered what story could possibly be more important than armed GIs robbing a Korean bank. What travesty could possibly have won out the contest for the front page?
There were a number of article snippets there, squibs edged around another gorgeous pinup girl. Some concerned Vietnam and others various military bases throughout the Pacific: Guam, Okinawa, the Philippines, Sasebo Naval Base in Japan. But Ernie and I didn’t have to scan long to find the article Colonel Brace wanted us to see. Above the fold, above the smiling bathing beauty, there it was, the headline in bold print and in black and white for the world to see.
sex convoy to the dmz
And beneath that a photo of a half-dozen young Caucasian women, most bundled in army-issue winter parkas, elaborate hairdos waving in the breeze, sitting on wooden fold-down benches on either side of the bed of a three-quarter-ton truck. Two helmeted American MPs sat hunched in the rear, rifles pointing skyward, faces grim as they guarded their precious cargo.
“What the hell?” Ernie asked, allowing the question to fade into the ether.
“My sentiments exactly,” said Colonel Brace.
-7-
Colonel Brace had no idea what to do about the photograph of the women or the accompanying article. According to the reporter, the very same Katie Byrd Worthington, the photograph had been provided to the Overseas Observer anonymously by an American soldier who’d been part of the escort team. Although the informant hadn’t talked to the women directly, the scuttlebutt was that they were “party girls,” as the Observer described them, being transported north to the ROK Army III Corps area along the DMZ for a meeting of honchos—not only Korean generals, but also one American general and one or two representatives from other allied nations. The MPs involved groused about having to operate as pimps, but after making the delivery, the entire squad had been given a three-day pass, which largely smoothed ruffled feathers.