by Martin Limon
Ernie and I waited until no one was watching, then passed between brick quarters and approached Colonel Peele’s house from the rear.
-12-
We listened for the sound of a washing machine or a dishwasher, but heard nothing. No one seemed to be moving inside.
“The maids usually work more than one house,” I said.
“Shall we knock on the front door?” Ernie asked.
“No. Someone might spot us. Let’s just take a chance and go in through the back.”
Which we did. Ernie brought along the tool set he called his “passkey,” wrapped in rolled felt. Deftly, he worked on the hasp of the sliding glass door while I paced back and forth behind him, keeping an eye out for anyone approaching. The latch quietly clicked open. Ernie entered first and I followed, sliding the door almost shut behind me.
The kitchen area was immaculately clean. Either the housemaid possessed some kind of magic, or the two officers who lived here didn’t do much cooking. Down a central hallway was a small living room, which I imagined the two officers shared. I stepped forward and unlocked the front door. Ernie nodded in approval. On either side of the hallway behind us was a door leading to what could only be each officer’s personal quarters.
“Which one?” Ernie whispered.
“Colonel Peele’s name on the sign out front is on this side,” I said, motioning to our left. “This is probably it.”
The door was locked. Cautious guy. Of course, he worked with a lot of classified material, which probably had something to do with it. Ernie set to work, and in a little under a minute he opened the door. Inside, I switched on the light. The shades were pulled shut, and the first thing we saw was a bed, neatly made, and beyond that a tiled bathroom. We checked the room quickly, noting the highly polished boots and low quarters in the closet sitting beneath a row of dry-cleaned dress uniforms and a single set of fatigues.
“If that was him last night,” Ernie whispered, “there’d be mud on these shoes.”
“The maid probably already cleaned them.”
“And the clothes he was wearing?”
“On their way to the laundry.”
On the left side of the room was another door, this one padlocked from the outside. “What’s that?” Ernie said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “More storage space or an office? Somewhere to lock up confidential paperwork?”
“Damn,” Ernie replied. “These field-grade officers have it made.”
Some enlisted barracks were “open bay.” That is, thirty or forty men and their bunks and their wall lockers stuffed into one huge room. Here at 8th Army headquarters, most GIs had it better. Four men per room and the latrine down the hall.
But rank has its privileges, and Colonel Peele clearly enjoyed those privileges. So far, we’d seen nothing that told us anything about him, other than that he was a military officer with nice quarters and extremely neat living habits. The latter, most probably, thanks to the help of a civilian-hire housemaid.
“I’ll bet the maid doesn’t have a key to that,” I said, pointing to the padlock.
“The inner sanctum,” Ernie said.
He went to work on the lock. In less than five minutes, tumblers dropped and it popped open. He turned the knob, pushed lightly, and the door swung forward, creaking.
Sure enough, there sat a muddy pair of combat boots and a soiled set of fatigues. Ernie checked the mud on the boots. “Still fresh,” he said. Above a desk was a row of wooden shelving, housing rows of nonfiction books, mostly on history and the military, plus a couple dozen Army Field Manuals. I grabbed one and slipped it out. Jungle Operations. I showed it to Ernie.
“Does it have a chapter on booby traps?”
I thumbed through it. “Yeah. It does, actually.” I slid the manual back into place.
Arrayed on the wall nearest the door were photographs of a younger Colonel Peele, of lower rank and with hair, receiving plaques and awards from older officers who resembled what he would look like in future decades. There were a couple of Distinguished Service Medals and similar awards, plus the requisite ticket punch: the Republic of Vietnam Campaign Medal. What was interesting to me was the back wall, the one on the opposite side of the official photographs and the plaques and the Army Field Manuals.
Ernie gazed at the floor-to-ceiling display. “What a madman,” he said. “This is like an art student’s collage.”
“A demented art student,” I added.
“One that needs help. Serious help.”
Pinned and taped and stapled to the wall was a massive collection of photographs and headlines and quotes and articles clipped out of newspapers, magazines, and even what looked like pages from books. Kim Il-sung, the Great Leader of North Korea, was featured prominently; sometimes smiling, sometimes waving to crowds, sometimes standing with both hands behind his back, gazing approvingly at rows of tanks and missiles and other military hardware. Also featured was Commander Lloyd Bucher, the skipper of the ill-fated USS Pueblo, a naval reconnaissance ship that was hijacked on the high seas by the North Korean Navy. Members of his crew, wearing prison uniforms, were also pictured, some of them crossing the Bridge of No Return in Panmunjom on the day they were finally released from captivity back in 1968. One of them had been carried back in a casket. A later photo showed a haggard Commander Bucher, slouching in a too-large dress uniform, sitting at the defense table during eventual hearings concerning the Pueblo incident. The Navy had accused him of abandoning his ship illegally, even though he’d been surrounded by North Korean gunboats and most observers believed that resistance would’ve been suicidal for Bucher and his crew. There were numerous black-and-white photos of the Korean War: refugees streaming south, women and children screaming as they looked up at the sky, mangled bodies laying in frozen mud.
But the most telling photo was more recent, and of Colonel Peele himself. I peered at it closely. He appeared to be wearing only the lieutenant colonel insignia on his shoulder, so it had been before he had been promoted to full colonel. He stood in a line with several other officers behind a two-star general who was somberly signing a document. Across from the general, fingers laced contentedly across his belly, sat a North Korean military officer.
“Peele worked at the MAC before,” Ernie said, “on a previous assignment.”
“Yeah,” I said, “about six years ago, when the Pueblo crew was released.”
“Doesn’t seem like he’s too proud of it.”
Inked across the headlines and the articles and the photographs was a red hammer and sickle. And more photos of starving North Korean civilians and sailors floating facedown at sea, men screaming in anguish as they were being tortured. But the central document, clearly displayed most prominently, was a copy of the formal apology signed by the MAC Commander in order to obtain the release of the Pueblo crew.
A door slammed out front. Ernie and I glanced at one another. Without talking, we backed out of the inner sanctum, switching off the light and relocking the door. I stepped carefully past Colonel Peele’s bed and, at the door to the hallway, stopped and listened.
“Nugu-syo?” a woman’s voice said. “Who is it?”
The maid.
I spotted a clipboard with a few blank army forms atop Colonel Peele’s dresser. I grabbed it and pulled out my pen and, holding them in front of me, I stepped into the hallway. A startled middle-aged Korean woman backed away.
“Inspection, ajjima,” I said. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”
In my experience, a GI holding a clipboard can do no wrong. And the unlocked front door actually buttressed my story. An inspector from 8th Army Billeting would have a master key. The maid’s eyes widened, but she acquiesced and we walked into the kitchen. I made a big show of checking the refrigerator and feeling for dust in the back of the cupboards, and I even turned on the oven and fiddled with its temperature control. All the
while, I jotted down notes and asked the woman how often she cleaned the kitchen. Nervously, she replied that she came in five days a week and always made sure the kitchen was left spotless. I asked her how many years she’d been working here and she told me almost twenty, since the end of the Korean War. Down the hallway, Ernie relocked Colonel Peele’s room and exited through the front door. Finally, at the completion of my “inspection,” I smiled at the woman and said she’d passed with flying colors. I even shook her hand, bowed, and thanked her for her service to the US military. Relieved, she beamed in response.
On the way out, I shut the front door behind me and dumped the clipboard into the trash bin at the side of the building. Ernie had retrieved the jeep and swung it around to the front. I climbed in.
“She okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Confused, but I don’t think she’ll call the MPs.”
“Do you think she’ll tell Peele?”
“Probably not. She’d be worried about it reflecting poorly on her. It’s always the maid’s fault.”
“Or the butler’s,” Ernie said.
“What was that document?” Ernie asked. “At the center of the collage?”
“Only the most famous document in North Korea, after the juche philosophy of the Great Leader.”
“What is it?”
“It’s the one and only time the United States of America has apologized to a foreign country for something we didn’t do.”
“We apologized to North Korea?”
“In writing,” I said. “For what the document called ‘grave acts of espionage.’”
“Why?”
“It was the only way to convince them to release the Pueblo crew. We had to publicly admit that the spy ship had entered North Korean waters, which wasn’t true. The USS Pueblo was assaulted on the high seas, in international waters. A clear act of war. As soon as the MAC Commander, Major General Woodward, signed the admission document, he made another statement renouncing it, saying the US had only cooperated to get the crew released.”
“Bet the North Koreans weren’t too happy about that.”
“They didn’t mind; they already had a legal document that admitted wrongdoing on behalf of the United States and abjectly apologized to the North Korean people, promising that we’d never do such a thing again. I’ve heard the original’s on display in a museum somewhere near Pyongyang.”
“And Peele was there for the signing.”
“He must’ve been on staff at the time. For all we know, he’s the one who drafted the false confession. Couldn’t have been easy. A lot of officers had to swallow their pride for that. Not only their own, but their country’s, too.”
“No wonder Peele hates the North Koreans. And now that he’s the Executive Officer of the MAC, he has the rank and authority to make them pay.”
“Maybe he will,” I said.
“Maybe,” Ernie replied. “Or maybe he’ll screw things up so badly he’ll start another war.”
“Please don’t tell me that.”
We encountered little traffic on the road to Paju-ri. A sign informed us that the city of Munsan could be reached by taking the next left, and that if we continued straight we’d reach Freedom Bridge and the Imjin River. Instead, at a small road with only a tiny sign in hangul script, Ernie turned right. The sign read: paju-ri, 2 km.
We wound past rice paddies and tin-roofed farmhouses until the road was lined on either side with single-story wood-frame shops. Some sold feed, others farming equipment. At a main intersection, we turned left toward the river. At a rise, we had a good view of the rapidly flowing Imjin about 500 yards ahead. About two miles to our left loomed the heavily guarded Freedom Bridge.
A hundred yards below us on a steep incline sat a cluster of buildings, one of them two stories tall, most decorated with neon signs. The brightest one blinked red: The Lucky Seven Bar.
Ernie slowed, stepped on the clutch, and coasted downhill.
“Nirvana,” he said. At precisely that moment, three more signs switched on. The Mini Skirt Club, the Rock Band Inn, and the Disco Club.
“Calling to me,” he said.
“They’ve been waiting for you,” I agreed.
“Rock and roll!” he shouted. Then he downshifted and the little jeep rumbled to a stop in front of the Lucky Seven Bar.
Her name was Ai-suk. Love-Chastity. When I asked for her family name, she clammed up. Apparently, that was too many questions too fast. She was a cocktail waitress at the Lucky Seven, and even though we were sitting at the bar she loitered next to us, her round stainless steel tray canted against shapely hips. She knew what time they would come.
“Bus leave after chow,” she said. “Bring all GI south if they have pass. Drop them here.” She pointed at the front door of the Lucky Seven. Her nails were painted red but gnawed close, probably from worrying. What else could a young woman do when she was estranged from her family and far from home, with her only source of income being what she could hustle from GIs barely out of their teens? The soldiers themselves were provided regular meals, dental care, a hundred percent medical, Serviceman’s Group Life Insurance, a roof over their heads, and a complimentary bronze marker from the Veterans Administration if they were unfortunate enough to stop a bullet. Compared to Ai-suk, they didn’t have a care in the world.
“Bus leave JSA eighteen-hundred hours,” she said. “Arrive Lucky Seven maybe twenty minutes if bridge not busy.”
If there wasn’t a military convoy crossing Freedom Bridge.
“Does everybody have an overnight?” I asked.
“No. Nobody have overnight. Only on weekends if they get three-day pass. If they get, most GI go Yonjukol.” A larger GI village about six miles south. “Or if they have yobo in Paju-ri, they stay here.”
“Do any of them go to Seoul?” I asked.
“Most not. JSA GI afraid of Seoul.”
“Afraid? Why?”
“Too big city. Too much they don’t know. Too much trouble get there and get back. If they come back JSA late, taaksan trouble.” She slashed the nail of her thumb across her slender throat.
“Do you have a yobo from the JSA?” I asked.
“No more. My last yobo, he go Stateside.”
“How long ago?”
She thought about that. “Two, maybe three weeks.”
“Do you miss him?”
Her eyes widened. “You dingy dingy?”
“No,” I replied. “I’m not crazy.”
“Paju-ri woman no can love GI,” she replied, suddenly serious. “GI come. GI go. Always count days until go back Stateside. Go back wife. Go back girlfriend. Paju woman just make GI happy.” She fluttered her fingers like a bird taking flight. “Then he go.”
“What do you get in return?” I asked.
Her eyes widened once again. She was debating whether I was making fun of her. Apparently, she realized that I wasn’t, so she answered seriously. “What Paju-ri woman get is we get to live.”
“A little money,” I said, “to pay for your hooch and your chop.”
Instead of being sad about this, Ai-suk smiled. “And nice hair.” She twirled her long black locks like a cresting wave in front of my face. I smelled the lilacs and watched her slender body as she twirled, giving me a good chance to look. Then she hit me lightly with the back of her tray.
“Seoul GI too smart,” she said. “Seoul GI have too many girlfriend. Why you come play with poor Paju woman?”
Instead of answering, I said, “How much is a drink for you?”
“Me?” she asked surprised. “One thousand won.” About two bucks. The beer I was drinking cost three hundred won.
“Here,” I said, laying a thousand won note on the bar. “Before the JSA GIs come. One drink for Ai-suk.”
Within seconds, the young male bartender set a pink concoction in front of Ai-suk
. She clinked her glass against my brown beer bottle and sipped provocatively on the straw. I wanted to win her confidence now, and the confidence of the bar owner, before the JSA contingent arrived. I knew from experience that when the local GIs realized that a couple of Seoul transplants had invaded their enclave and run up the prices by spoiling one of their bar girls with a sweetheart drink, the resentment grew out of proportion. They hated REMFs anyway—“rear-echelon MFs.”
Ai-suk sipped again on her drink, then handed it to the bartender who hid it behind the bar just as the green Army bus from the JSA pulled up in front of the Lucky Seven Bar. GIs whooped and hollered, hopped out of the bus, and headed straight for the Lucky Seven’s beaded curtain. They pushed through and, like a horde of pillaging Vikings, assaulted the pool cues and the green felt tables.
Before we’d left Seoul, Ernie and I had put on our running-the-ville outfits: blue jeans, sneakers, sport shirts with collars, and nylon jackets with fire-breathing dragons embroidered on the back. Still, we weren’t fooling anyone. Every set of eyeballs flicked toward us as the GIs filtered into the club. They knew we were strangers, probably from Seoul, and their paranoia had almost certainly led them to believe we’d been sent to spy on them. Still, no one approached us. They just ordered beer, racked up billiard balls, and played grab-ass with the waitresses, pretending to be unconcerned by our intrusion.
After Ai-suk had served a couple of rounds, I called her over.
“Who works at the JSA?” I asked.
“All,” she said.
“And who has the most rank?”
She nodded toward a thin black GI leaning over the far pool table, preparing to break. “Him,” she said. “His name Gol-sun.” She hustled off to serve more drinks.
The letter “g” in Korean is interchangeable with the letter “k.” So I figured his name was Colson. His rank was probably buck sergeant, because if he were a corporal, he wouldn’t be the ranking man in this group. And if he were any higher—say, a staff sergeant—he would’ve already reenlisted at least once, making him a lifer, and he wouldn’t be hanging out in a bar with this group of young knuckleheads. Already two of them were squaring off in an argument over a bank shot.