GI Confidential

by Martin Limon

“That’s what we’re doing, aren’t we?” Ernie asked.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Not our decision. But we’ll be back to tracking him as soon as we get this Third Corps crap out of the way.”

  “Watch your language,” Katie said.

  “My language?” Ernie asked.

  “Pull over here,” Katie said, pointing to a flat area overlooking a beautiful panorama of the mountains.

  “What for?”

  “Just do it.”

  Ernie did. Then we climbed out of the jeep, and Katie had us pull out our .45s and pose like a couple of lawmen about to gun down Jesse James. After she clicked off a half-dozen shots, she popped the lens cover back onto her camera and said, “That ought to frost his butt.”

  By now, we’d climbed about two thousand feet into the Taebaek Mountains and were nearing the outskirts of the city of Chuncheon. After passing the downtown area, Ernie turned into the main gate of Camp Page for a rest stop. Katie had to show her press credentials, and we flashed our CID badges. The MP gave us directions to the POL Point, and after wandering around the compound for a while, Ernie found it and gassed up the jeep.

  Katie took advantage of this break to use the latrine, as did I.

  As we were driving back toward the main gate, she pointed to the headquarters Quonset hut of the 38th Air Defense Artillery Brigade. “Stop here,” she said.

  “What the hell for?”

  “I need to use their phone,” she said, tapping her notebook, “to file this story.”

  “You’re going to call all the way to Hong Kong?”

  “Why not?”

  “They won’t let you use their phone for long-distance,” Ernie said. “Those are for official use only.”

  “All they need to do is log me in under an AUTOVON number.” AUTOVON was the long-distance telephone network the military used, with each call receiving an authorization number issued by the local commander. The AUTOVON operator would record the number and then patch you through. “Once I have the number, I can talk to our editorial office for as long as I want.”

  “Not official business,” Ernie said. “They wouldn’t approve it.”

  “Sure they will,” she said, holding her Nikon camera in front of her. “What do you think I have this for?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I go in, take a couple of photos of the Battalion Sergeant Major, and ask if I can take a picture of the CO, too. After that, while they’re making me promise to send them copies, I ask really sweetly if I can use their phone to call my editor. They always say yes.”

  “So you manipulate people,” Ernie said.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  Ernie pulled over into the gravel lot, and Katie Byrd Worthington, smiling and waving, bounced into the battalion headquarters.

  “What’d you think about what she said about Sarkosian?” Ernie asked.

  “I think he’s more resourceful than we’ve given him credit for. Somehow, he found Katie. And fast. And now it looks like he might eventually have his side of the story published in the Overseas Observer after all.”

  “In the morning he’s involved in a shootout with Korean cops,” Ernie said. “He watches as his partners are shot down at close range and escapes by blasting his way out of a side window. To top off his day’s work, he murders a traffic cop with his bare hands and almost immediately starts the publicity side of his legal defense.”

  “What a guy,” I said.

  Ernie nodded. “If he’d gone straight, he could’ve been one of those bankers or professors you’re always talking about.”

  “Instead, he’s a wanted man. Whose last wish is to murder us.”

  “About half the women I ever went out with will be rooting for him.”

  “But they’re justified,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Ernie said, leaning back in his seat and resting his hands behind his head. “They are.”

  Twenty minutes later, Katie Byrd Worthington emerged from the main door to the Quonset hut. Three GIs, including one with Sergeant Major stripes, followed her out, smiling and waving. At the jeep, she threw them a big kiss and climbed back in.

  Ernie said, “You’re shameless.”

  “You bet your sweet ass I am,” she replied. “But I got my story filed.”

  Ernie backed out of the parking area, gunned the engine, and headed toward the main gate.

  “Do those guys think they’re going to appear in the next issue of the Overseas Observer?” I asked.

  “I told them they wouldn’t. Not unless they found a beautiful blonde mistress with a direct line to the Kremlin.”

  “Up here in Chuncheon?” Ernie said.

  “Okay, it’s not likely.”

  “But you’re going to send them copies of those photos?”

  “Sure,” she replied. “Posthaste.”

  After we passed through the main gate, she opened her camera and showed me the empty film compartment, grinning. “The main thing is, they were happy in the moment,” she said.

  “That counts for something,” Ernie said.

  “Sure does,” she agreed.

  Before we left town, Katie had us stop at Chuncheon’s one and only Korean post office. Inside, she scribbled some notes onto a sheet of paper and had the film with the photos of me and Ernie stuffed into a thick envelope and special-delivered to her office in Seoul. “From there, they’ll ship it on to Hong Kong,” she told us, “so it makes the next edition.”

  “You think Sarkosian will take the bait?”

  “Of course he will. All he’s got left is his pride.”

  “It’s a pretty messed up sense of pride,” I said.

  “The only kind he’s ever had,” Katie answered.

  We climbed back into the jeep and returned to the road leading into the Taebaek Mountains, heading toward the ROK Army III Corps, the personal fiefdom of Major General Bok Jung-nam.

  -19-

  A suspicious hon-byong, or Korean army MP, studied our dispatch, keeping his semi-automatic rifle balanced in the crook of his arm. Three other MPs surrounded our jeep, all with grim faces, living up to the sign behind them that said huanyong! Welcome!

  The lead MP kept our dispatch, walked back into the wooden guard shack, and spoke to someone on his field radio. We waited ten minutes. When he returned he handed us back the dispatch, and without a word, waved us through. Another MP raised the metal barrier, and Ernie’s wheels spun on gravel until we hit the dirt pathway winding farther into the mountains. In the distance, atop various peaks, sandbagged gun emplacements surrounded reinforced concrete bunkers painted shades of black, green, and brown.

  “Sweet,” Katie said. “Just like the French Alps.”

  “Yep. The skiing must be great here when it snows,” Ernie said.

  “Huh,” Katie said. “You wouldn’t know a slalom from a switchback.”

  Offended, Ernie said, “Not true. I went to a skating rink once.”

  “Let me guess. With the City of Detroit’s Endangered Youth Program?”

  He almost turned around. “How’d you know?”

  “I’m a reporter, remember?”

  “You’ve been snooping around in our personnel records again,” I said.

  “Somebody’s gotta do it,” Katie replied.

  The reach of this woman was astounding. All the safeguards the military put in place to protect their fancy communications equipment, official-use-only personnel records, and even the occasional classified document—all of that went out the window when a personable, good-looking woman smiled and flattered and snapped photographs you could send home to your loved ones. And in return she asked for only a teensy little favor.

  Soviet spies could learn from Katie Byrd Worthington.

  A dirt-spattered soldier waved us to a stop. ROK Army combat en
gineers were expanding and repaving the road. As we waited for a tractor to finish shoveling a pile of dirt off a cliff, I asked one of the soldiers what was being built. Pleased to be addressed in Korean, he smiled a big, white-toothed smile that contrasted against his dirt-smudged face and told me they were just about finished with the project. They were expanding the road for easier, more rapid movement of tanks and other armored vehicles.

  “Couldn’t the tanks pass before?” I asked.

  “Yes. But it was a slow drive. Lots of curves and narrow passageways. That made them vulnerable to enemy artillery or air attack. And sometimes mudslides knocked the road out completely, but we’ve put in support revetments this time. Now the tanks will have more space to maneuver, and it will be much faster to relocate a tank battalion to the forward area.”

  Improving fortifications along the DMZ was a job that had been taking place since the end of the Korean War twenty years ago, and as far as I could tell, it was one that would continue until the ceasefire was violated so egregiously that another war broke out.

  Once we were allowed to pass the construction site, we reached smooth blacktop, already repaved and widened. Ernie sped up. After a couple miles, we rounded a curve and the road dropped downhill, leveling off in a valley covered with tank units, many churning up mud on narrow pathways that intersected across the landscape like a tightly woven fisherman’s net. At the far end of the valley was a rise, and atop that sat a long cement-block building fronted by massive embankments of reinforced concrete. Steel bars protruded from the edifice like spears pointing at charging cavalry, and the entire wall was carefully swathed in coiled concertina wire.

  A sign at the entranceway said in both Korean and English, welcome to the rok army iii corps. home of fire and fury!

  By the standards of what I imagined one could find in the French Alps, the general officers’ mess was Spartan. But that was luxurious compared to the utilitarian ROK Army chow halls I’d visited before. A thin carpet lay on the cement floor, and a half-dozen tables were set up in front of a row of plate glass windows.

  “The DMZ,” General Bok said, gazing out the window. After a steep descent, the valley below was demarcated by a long triple line of chain-link fences that split the landscape in two. “And those over there,” he said, pointing about a mile away on the other side of the divide, “are the North Korean guard posts. Boxy little things. Not much protection for their soldiers.”

  They indeed looked like matchboxes on stilts. Occasionally, a dark figure could be seen moving within. Attached to the outer walls were large metal speakers for broadcasting propaganda.

  “Why don’t the North Koreans reinforce those guard posts?” Katie asked.

  “Because if we attack, up on that far ridge is where they would make their stand. On the high ground.”

  “So these troops are just the tripwire?”

  “Yes, exactly. You might call them the staked goat waiting for the tiger.”

  General Bok was a dapper little man. Not very tall, but broad-shouldered and thin-waisted, and in his immaculately pressed fatigue uniform, he looked ready for a Madison Avenue photo shoot. His English was very good. I was tempted to ask about his education, but I figured I’d better stick to what I was sent up here to do, which was make sure he wasn’t doing anything that would compromise 8th Army. And, if we could find her, talk to Estella.

  The Korean Army and Koreans in general were more relaxed than many Americans about life’s natural functions, like sex. Our background was Puritan; the 8th Army honchos, in their high-collared dress uniforms, looked like nothing if not a hysterical bevy of Salem witch hunt deacons. Behind the scenes, they were every bit as debauched as the next guy. But they still wanted to make sure that if something incriminating was going on in the ROK Army III Corps, it was stopped or at least covered up before any of it seeped out into the media. Especially when millions in US military funding was at stake. If Congress was humiliated back home, they could cut 8th Army’s flow of money or even eliminate it.

  And our bringing Katie Byrd Worthington here flew right in the face of our task. The 8th Army honchos would have a heart attack if they knew. Sure, she’d coerced us into it with that photo, but I was starting to worry that I might live to regret the decision.

  After we were seated, a waiter served us roast beef and mashed potatoes with gravy, along with cut green beans that looked like they’d come straight out of an army-issue #10 can. To my surprise, another waiter appeared with a bottle of chilled rosé wine. After General Bok approved the wine, Katie was served first. She quaffed it down. Once the waiter finished pouring for the rest of us, Katie waved her empty glass to the waiter, who refilled it.

  “You like your wine,” General Bok said, smiling.

  “When I can get it.”

  She glugged down about half her glass, then dug into the roast beef.

  I was considering how to phrase my inquiry when Katie, her mouth full of roast beef and mashed potatoes, said, “Where’s Estella?”

  Bok dropped his fork and looked up from his plate, shocked.

  “Who?” he said.

  “Estella,” Katie replied matter-of-factly. “Your girlfriend. The one you made stay behind when the others left.”

  General Bok stared at her intently. I held my breath. Even Ernie sat frozen in his seat. We were surrounded by soldiers whose only reason for being there was to execute orders from this man swiftly and without question. To them, this general was practically a god. In the Korean army, discipline wasn’t something that was ever ignored—as it occasionally was in the American Army—or something that could be adjudicated in a court-martial. It was absolute. It was instantaneous. After all, President Park had once been a general himself, and he demanded total obedience from his government, his military, and everyone else in the country. More than one South Korean soldier had been executed for not following orders, or for perceived insubordination. Maybe General Bok wouldn’t kill us because we were Americans and that would bring too much unwanted attention, but he could certainly cause us grief.

  Katie sipped more wine, set the glass down, and said, “You know who I’m talking about. Estella. Your girlfriend. Bring her out. Don’t be bashful. We want to talk to her.”

  His face turned red. “You’re referring to those six women who were sent south by General Crabtree.”

  “Yes.”

  “They were just visiting,” Bok said. “Tourists. Curious about our operation and the landscape we work in.”

  “Yeah,” Katie said, “I met one of your tourists. At the Top Hat Scotch Corner. So how long were they here?”

  “Just a few days.”

  “You had a party?”

  “We always entertain our guests.”

  “And those six women, they entertained you, too?”

  General Bok’s stare had turned icy. “I found them quite amusing, yes.”

  “So amusing you didn’t want to let them go.”

  Suddenly, his fist pounded the table. Plates rattled. “You liar!” he said. “I saw your article in that trashy tabloid.”

  “The Overseas Observer,” Katie corrected.

  “Yes. That. You implied that those women were kept here against their will. That’s not true. General Crabtree was kind enough to escort them back to Seoul. For that, I’m grateful to him, but they were not kept here against their will.”

  “I talked to one of them,” Katie said, pulling out her notebook. “She says you wouldn’t let them go. Not until Crabtree and his assistant, Screech Owl, surprised you with an unannounced visit.”

  Katie seemed calm, but I realized she was nervous, forgetting both men’s military rank and calling Tapia Screech Owl.

  “Who fed you this lie?” he asked.

  Katie waved her free hand. “Not important. Only your answers matter here. So you didn’t keep them long? How many days?”

 
; “Two,” he said. “Maybe three.”

  “She says almost a week.”

  “She’s lying.”

  Katie nodded. “And Estella, how does she feel about staying up here?”

  “She feels—” General Bok cut himself off. He sat back in his chair, unclenched his fist, and took a long sip of rosé. Immediately, the waiter appeared to refill his glass, and Katie called him over. The waiter stood and bent forward, waiting for General Bok’s instruction. He nodded, and the waiter hurried to Katie and refilled her glass as well. Not to be forgotten, Ernie had the waiter top him off, too.

  Finally, General Bok said, “So you’re concerned about Estella.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes,” Katie replied.

  “Then you can talk to her.” He snapped his fingers, and this time a man in uniform appeared. Whispering, General Bok said something to the man, who bowed and hurried away.

  After we finished our food, Bok escorted us out onto a wooden deck overlooking the fortifications and the DMZ. They were still visible in the lowering sunlight. Like any tourist site in the States, a telescope was mounted on a swivel near the edge, except this one didn’t require a dime to operate. He showed Katie how to look through it and turned it for her, pointing out the North Korean communications facility and the defensive trenches they’d built behind an open field riddled with landmines.

  “Sweet,” she said. “Do you guys send patrols over there?”

  General Bok grinned. “You’re asking for classified information.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, scribbling in her notebook.

  “Take it as a ‘no comment,’” he said.

  “Oh, I love ‘no comment,’” Katie said. “In print, it makes you look so guilty.”

  Bok’s face hardened. “You don’t do things the same way as other reporters.”

  “God, I hope not.”

  He turned to us. “Do you have what you need?”

  I cleared my throat. “General Bok, we were sent here by Eighth Army to make sure there are no women still here, or anything else that might prove scandalous in the newspapers.”