by Gus Lee
Nagol might recognize me from our chat at the CG's mess. I scuttled into the vestibule, where I used paper towels to clean the base of the fountain.
Nagol walked with painful, angular fragility, one bone at a time, bearing his sins. No one noticed me. I saw the Wizard look up, his blue, purposeful eyes mystic, unreadable. “Please leave us.” A voice with a halo. The CID men left.
Nagol said, “Colonel—”
“Be silent!” The Wizard's face was down, arms laid across the desk as if to keep it from rising. “That you would defame my trust, disgrace my office, and humiliate me—after all I have done for you—is unspeakable! Monstrous!” He stood, unable to look at Nagol, who trembled and swayed on the edge of collapse.
“Sir—”
“Not one word! Good Lord! I asked you if anything was irregular in claims and you assured me all was correct.”
LeBlanc lifted a CID two-prong vertical file. “This says our claims are bogus, frauds, fabrications. And authored by you while our JAGCs had no idea what you were doing.”
The Wizard trembled. “Do you have any idea what you've done?!” He threw the file at Nagol, and it exploded into a cascade of paper, knocking Nagol into a chair; his head bounced backwards, then forwards, into his hands, shoes covered in falling paper.
“Jeez—”
“Yes, Thomas. Pray! I gave you life and you chose larceny. You're a disgrace. And you still smoke cigarettes, inhaling nicotine, and you drink and whore with—with, with—whores.”
Nagol's shoulders trembled. The Wizard sat heavily in his chair. I rubbed the fountain base.
The Wizard hit his buzzer and the CID agents returned to stand at attention in his office.
The soft, beguiling voice: “Put him in D Cell, ex-communicado.” Detention blocks. Colonel Frederick LeBlanc waved dismissively. The agents lifted Nagol and took him.
I put down the rag; the fountain base sparkled. At first, the Wizard had spoken like Grandpa Walton; but in hazing Nagol, he had used the voice of old Master Wong, our fighting junk passenger, whose anger seemed to grow rather than dissipate over the years. Master Wong's spiritual fuel was rage: rage at war, at the river, at the Japanese, the Communists, the Nationalists, the fishermen, their wives, and their small, unteachable sons who were his students.
Master Wong, the short, grizzled wu-shu teacher with iron hands. He had taught me the wing-chun way of the Chinese fist, the path of the Chinese foot, the power of the Chinese hip in hand-to-hand combat. In return, we took him between Changsha and the White Gorges, where he visited his second wife, a young Mohammedan woman with black teeth and a body composed of riverlike curves.
“Ma—horse position—lower!” he would scream, hitting me into the correct stance with a blow that knocked out my spit. Punching him in drills was like hitting stone.
The Wizard had softly closed his door. A sheet of the CID report had wafted into the vestibule. I took the paper and folded it into a pocket, took my gear and glided to the door.
The intercom buzzer sounded.
“Smith, ask Captain Kan to join me. Bring coffee.”
The sentry looked about. “Sir, ain't no captain here.”
“Smith,” said the disembodied voice, “Captain Kan is the big janitor with the broom. Ask him in.”
13
LITTLE TIN HEROES
Colonel Frederick LeBlanc glanced up, the gaze holding me, the stern principal with the delinquent. His eyes were a stellar blue, the left larger, the right brighter, each feature unique in angle, the sum forming a face more compelling than the one in the OMPF personnel file photo.
It was in the eyes: the burden of lesser men and the comfort of their shortcomings. His face was translucent, androgynous, the long nose not male but universal, the aspect genderless, textured by ambiguous sphinxes and hardened sandstone, the mouth a weapon, the hair white and patrician. He smiled and he was BaBa, the kind father. The cast of his gaze seemed more Asian than Western; his face was free of European precipices and hard Alpine turns.
He had looks not to envy but to admire. His gaze sought quiet prisoners, all who might be uncertain in an alienating world. He was a bodhisattva—serene, transcendent, sexless, not of matter and its pains, a rock in a quiet stream described by music of gentle waters. West Point was not a zen place, and here, on the welcome mat to the DMZ, he had made a bandit's stand with the demeanor of a Gregorian monk.
All this was made clear in only moments. I sat. The sentry brought hot coffee. The girl who had come from my nightmare to kneel at the Wizard's feet was gone. Time to play the prescribed role.
“Sir, units from the Panama Canal to Berlin Garrison have had race problems. The Second Infantry hasn't. TIG wants to know why. I was to merge into Casey society and make my report. I'm sorry for entering your Q without more candor.”
Colonel LeBlanc crossed his legs, his gaze neutral. “Captain Kan, everyone's looking for Buford, the missing IG. I have better ROK Army contacts than any American officer in the field, and I think it helps in this regard that I understand the Oriental mind.”
I nodded affably.
He interlaced his fingers. “Captain, I dislike your type, sauntering in like little tin heroes. You are better fit for the Gestapo than the U.S. Army. You threaten liberties. It is hard not to take that personally.” He gestured dismis-sively. “That is why I cooperate, giving you everything, so you will leave. So we can return to our work. Buford is not here.”
A captain would now run for cover. “Sir, I'm just doing my job. You think I want to be chasing race relations over here in winter? I don't think so. I was ordered here. If you think your work is beyond the concerns of the IG, don't bust my chops. Pick up your phone and call Carlos Murray. Tell him, Colonel. Not me.”
Colonel LeBlanc sighed. “All right, but know this: had your Captain Buford come to me, I would have refused him nothing. An IG officer masquerading as a janitor is offensive. To snoop and pry as if my men were the enemy…” He scratched his scalp. “Lord knows we have problems here. This is the moon, and lunacy even affects good officers, like Thomas Nagol.”
Nagol's castigation had been good theater. For me. Carlos had said of the Wizard, “The man does not love God.”
Light reflected from the Wizard's golden-edged Bible.
I was better at prosecution than at acting. Now, for both.
“You know, an IG who's disappeared would be dead center in the IG mission statement. Let me ask you some questions about that, sir.”
A pause. “By all means.” A flourish of a manicured hand.
“Why have you extended here for eight hardship tours?”
He rubbed a thumb against an index finger. “It's a matter of record, I failed to impress my superiors stateside.”
“How do you encourage JAGCs to extend with you?”
“They didn't do very well over there either. Here, they do.”
“Why is that?”
He smiled. “I give them God.” He interlaced his fingers.
“What, sir, are you going to do about claims?”
“Personally prosecute the guilty for max sentences.”
Wrong. He would have to recuse his office, since Nagol was in his command. “What, sir, is on the map, behind your door?”
Interlocked fingers tightened. “None of your business.”
“Is that what Jimmy Buford asked you?” “I dislike the insinuation.”
“Sorry. I asked, sir, is that what Jimmy Buford asked?” “No.”
“Who knows more about American criminal law here than you?”
He hesitated, licking his upper lip. “Frankly, no one.”
I studied his eyes. “What's your best guess to explain Captain Buford's disappearance?”
His eyes glittered. “Whores and lust, Captain. There are more comfort girls, business girls, harlots, prostitutes and fallen women in this community than there are mountains in Korea. They cluster here and take down our troops. You asked; I will tell you. Captain Buford visited a honky-
tonk bar and—”
“Was jumped by Specialist Muldoon's five idiots and Captain Willoughby?”
He took a breath. “Your noble friend fell victim to a mugging.”
I opened my notepad. “Batteries on ROK civilian females by U.S. troops, 1973: one thousand two hundred twelve.” I looked up; no argument with the civil character of the new volunteer, non-draft Army.
“Batteries on GIs by ROKs, same period: four. Number of those determined to be self-defense: four.” I looked at him with hope for an explanation.
He checked a nail. “Statistics lie.”
“Fine. Let's forget our highly anal worldwide crime stat work, the data upon which we allocate our JAGCs. How'd you come up with the mugging theory?”
“My experience, which you cannot touch.”
“List your contacts in the search for Captain Buford.”
He did. I noted them. A lot of ROK Army commanders.
“Sir, we deal in facts. Truth-telling. BS-removal.” I scratched my head. “So tell me. Why are you so incredibly unbelievable?”
He leaned back. “That is so simple, even you can grasp it. Captain, you have no skills to assess others, much less to judge me.” He crinkled his eyes. “So spare me your loyal-bulldog prosecutor routine. I must tell you. I am offended that One Leg Murray sent me a captain.” He glanced around. “Yet, I don't want you feeling dejected. Not yet.” He looked at me. “I have been a terrible host. What do you say? Before you go, how about cleaning under my desk?”
The two houseboys, men in their fifties, washed fatigues in the shower of the Ice Palace latrine and solemnly watched me change from Korean janitor to American officer. I unfolded the sheet of paper from the Wizard's floor. Simple correspondence paper, not a Form DD-320 CID sheet.
The M6A22 priming adapter is used to secure the blasting cap in a threaded fuze well. It is used with both electric and nonelectric blasting caps in detonating assemblies (Figure 1001–1) against a wide variety of targets. The M09 blasting cap holder is a metal clip used to attach and hold a blasting cap to sheet explosives. It is used with the MB 11 sheet demolition charges or the M681 roll demolition charge and is shipped as a separate item of demolition support issue. Remember to use pressure-sensitive adhesive tape to join charges to dry, clean wood, steel or concrete, in 1/2 inch wide and 72 yard-long rolls….
The file Colonel LeBlanc had thrown at Nagol was not a CID report. It was a sapper's demolitions tech manual— a controlled item with a strict distribution restriction— something that should never be floating around a lawyer's office.
It told people how to blow things up.
14
BETTER THAN MOST WAKING MEN
Eight A.M. Min and a ROK Army wireman had rebuilt the broken window and had given us an AUTOVON phone line into the U.S. military worldwide net. I thanked them. They stared at Levine.
“Secure now, dae-wi” said Min. He showed me a box full of muddy wires. “Micro-phonee in wall. To Wirra-bee room Q.” We had been bugged. Min pointed. Willoughby knew IGs were after Buford, the Wizard and claims—and not racial equities.
I added unauthorized wiretap to Willoughby's conspiracy to commit multiple aggravated battery and interference.
“Dae-wi, Wirra-bee very mos’ bad to other man, numbah-ten bad to Korean man. What ’Merican slang say him?”
“Asshole,” I said.
“Ah ha. And for bad man, lie to people?”
“Cheat. Swindler. Fraud. Four-flusher.” I had to explain that. Min repeated them. I couldn't find any other words. “Liar, liar, pants on fire—cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater.”
Min repeated the words. GIs despised him as a lowly, groveling gook. I tried to like him, but I hated his driving.
“Corporal, stay with Captain Levine. Someone's following us.” He nodded. I wondered if Min could help in an emergency.
“Figure it's one of the Wizard's boys?” she asked.
I said I didn't know. I described him. “Call Yongsan.”
I left the sidearm with her. Sobered, she picked up the receiver. She had to yell into it, bellowing for Eighth Army.
The visit to Wizard Q had taken half an hour. Magrip had already checked the MP gate. Now he and I rode the unheated, springs-busted Casey bus in search of Jimmy. We checked units, barracks, aid stations, VD clinic, alcohol and drug abuse.
Casey was the forsaken, end-of-the-world, ramshackle home of our lost division, housing heavily armed, displaced fugitives from the world's richest cities and poorest farms. These underschooled, low-promise men had slid down the social totem pole to pit bottom.
Our Foreign Legion. Dropouts, drunks, dopers, delinquents, tattoo targets, alkies, riflemen, cannoneers and tankers pulling twelve-hour days. We saw tired NCOs we knew from prior assignments. I passed out Juicy Fruit, Doublemint, Marlboros, Camels, Luckies, Parliaments and Winstons to the two subsocieties: old hands who had been in Korea for years; and the majority, who counted days to get out of the Year in Hell. Many of the latter had bad teeth, lousy haircuts, lousier tattoos and hints of rickets. It was the modern Army in its post-Vietnam depression.
Most of the Eleven Bravo 11Bs—riflemen—were black. Most tank drivers were white. We saw three Korean hulk 76Ys—supply clerks—neckless, steroidal beasts averaging two hundred pounds, with maroon facial discolorations and stainless-steel dental work. They spoke English as if they had acquired it from matchbook covers. Most of the supply clerks were Koreans of more natural size. Many cooks were Hispanic. Some of the general population had larcenous hearts. Everyone was cold.
The driver of the jeep that had been following us for an hour was Asian. It was nearly noon. “Pincer him,” I said. “You get behind. I'll force from the front.”
We were at POL, the petroleum, oil and lubricants depot. “Screw it.” Magrip yelled at the driver, forced open the door and got off the moving bus running. I punched out the emergency window on the bus driver's side and jumped to the ground, sprinting after Magrip in the direction of the jeep.
The jeep driver's mouth gaped as he skidded to a stop. Behind him, a platoon of M60A1 main battle tanks roared out of the petrol shop in single file, heavy with full fuel cells. The five tanks blocked the jeep's escape to the rear. We had him.
The noon base siren sounded. The jeep banged into reverse, weaving back at the second tank. The tank driver yelled soundlessly, then blew his air horn. The jeep kept coming at him and the tanker hit his brakes, the mammoth sixty tons of steel lurching and bouncing to a stop, its tracks chewing asphalt. The jeep scraped the tank, ripping off its own mirror and paint, narrowly avoiding a dramatic pancaking as the three trail tanks braked, bobbing like boats on an angry sea. The tank engines bellowed like ancient thunder lizards, blowing black diesel clouds. Magrip and I ran through the exhaust, around clanking tank treads and drawing more air horn blasts.
We came out of the smoke and the jeep was gone.
“See him?” snarled Magrip.
“Same guy. Korean. See the bumper stencils? Get any detail on the guy? You were closer.”
“Jesus, they all look alike.” He squeezed his grenade.
“Maybe Jimmy went down like this.” I blew out air. “Now he'll back off. Gotta trap him next time. Encircle him….”
“Kan, you squirrelly sonofabitch, you're talking to yourself.”
“That happens to people who don't have anyone to talk to.”
Magrip said to get off the bus. It was the mess hall for Second Battalion, First of the Thirty-eighth, Rock of the Marne.
“My unit after Nam.” He didn't sound happy. I realized he had spent more of his adult life in Asia than I had.
If Levine were with us, she would incite a Stone Age riot over something more basic than creamed chipped beef over toast. She wasn't with us.
“Good chow here?” I asked. A Chinese question.
“It's dogshit. I'll treat.” The mess hall was a factory of working mouths. It was too cold to talk. The ration clerk had seen sergeant's stripes four or five
times and was now a private. “Room, atten-HUT!” he bellowed. “It's Butt Kicker Magrip!”
Old forks fell on cheap trays bearing the worst food in the U.S. Army as sixteen hundred wet, mildewing combat boots hit the wood floor. Magrip, Medal of Honor winner, had come home. A battalion of tired, grimy, half-frozen American riflemen saluted one of their own.
He smartly returned their salute. “NOW SIDDOWN!” he roared. He hated notoriety. He poked the food as if it might return the favor of an unwelcome bite. The food was ghastly but very hot.
Young troopers with scalp buzz cuts, cold sores and fingers at the edge of frostbite came to our table to salute and shake his hand, looking at a famous killer with affection and envy. Magrip eyeballed them and wished them well.
A short, broad-shouldered, square-faced, heavily scarred, ebony-black top sergeant named Reynolds was next. He looked down at Magrip. Magrip blinked and then stood.
“How goes it?” asked Top. He pointed to his own heart.
Magrip shrugged. “Shit. Hack, how the hell's yours?”
“Mighty fine, seeing you so squared away. Captain Luke, you're a jolt for sore eyes.” He opened his arms and Magrip embraced him. They didn't hit each other's backs. They held on, heads down and eyes closed by a powerful clenching of brows, knuckles popping from the grip, chasing away demons.
“Hack,” he whispered. “I got married.”
“Hey, hey, Captain. Hey, hey.”
We changed in the Q latrine. Having dry socks was like visiting Paris in spring. In the room, Magrip ignored Levine, who winced at the slimy beef ragout we had brought her in a pot. She offered it to Min. He looked at it with bared teeth.
“Aniyo, no, please, all for you,” he said gallantly.
I stretched my bad back. “Trail Man risked killing himself to get away. He's dangerous.”
“No shit,” said Magrip. “He's a Korean in a jeep.”