by Martin Limon
I expected Mr. Bufford to hold out his hand but, instead, bony fingers clenched hip bones. His face was narrow and his black crew cut contrasted with the paleness of his flesh. His waist was thin and his chest so emaciated that I’d seen more robust rib cages on porcelain platters at Thanksgiving. It was his eyes that held you. Black and deep set. The pupils shining like tiny eight balls, above a nose that pointed forward like a bayonet on the end of an M-16. He sniffled as he studied us and both nostrils clung to inner flesh. Then he snorted and the moist flesh released with a pop.
The room smelled of cigarettes and burnt coffee. Bufford didn’t say anything. Neither did Ernie. I broke the ice.
“Mr. Bufford?” I asked. Inanely, because his name and his rank were sewn onto his uniform.
He stared at me with no sign of response. Puffy dun-colored bags sat beneath eyes so dark they were almost purple. I glanced from his odd, ravaged face to the celluloid carnage that surrounded us. Brutality, rape, murder, assault. All of it was here. Frozen in time and plastered on the walls of this Quonset hut as if to preserve it for posterity. As if someone here, probably Bufford, hated to let it go.
Finally, Warrant Officer Bufford’s voice emerged as a nasal whine.
“I stand by my report,” he said. “It’s all in there. That’s it.” He slashed a bony finger in the air. “And if you talk to the provost marshal, he’ll tell you the same thing.”
“Whoa,” Ernie said, holding up both hands. “Whatever happened to ‘Hello’? ‘How you doing?’ ‘What’s new in Seoul?’ and all that shit?”
Bufford looked puzzled, as if he’d never heard of anything as mundane as social amenities.
“It’s in my report,” he repeated.
“ ‘Hello’ is in your report?”
Bufford was growing more confused by the minute.
Ernie eyed him, still trying to figure out what we’d stumbled into. I sat on a gray steel chair beneath a photograph of a dead GI slumped over a steering wheel. I cleared my throat and spoke.
“Mr. Bufford,” I said. “Where is Corporal Jill Matthewson?”
For once, he couldn’t say it was in his report. Bufford’s pasty flesh was no longer white but almost aflame now and his sunken cheeks didn’t quite quiver but seemed to suck in, like a bellows drawing breath.
“It ain’t going to work,” he said.
“What ain’t going to work?” Ernie asked.
“You’re CID. Eighth Army. You’re not going to make us look bad.”
“We’re not here to make anybody look bad,” I told him. “We’re here to find Corporal Jill Matthewson.”
His skull swiveled away for a moment, as if he were in pain, and then he turned back to look at me. “You got no rights. You’re REMFs. From Eighth Army. This is Division.” Then he started to scream. “This is Division!”
Ernie leaned across the desk. Bufford backed up, ready to leap away from Ernie’s grasp but as he did so the door to the small office squeaked open and a stranger entered the room. He was a short man, about five and a half feet tall, wearing green fatigues. Sandy brown hair was slicked across his round head and, through a pair of square-lensed glasses, he smiled, all of which gave him the air of a deacon attending Sunday services at a Southern Baptist church. As a military man, what my eyes latched onto first was his name tag, which said ALCOTT, and then his rank insignia—a silver maple leaf—indicating that he was a lieutenant colonel. I already knew that LTC Stanley X. Alcott was the Provost Marshal of the 2nd United States Infantry Division.
Bufford composed himself long enough to thrust back his shoulders and holler, “Attention!”
Lieutenant Colonel Alcott smiled and waved his soft palm. “At ease,” he said. “At ease. Everybody take a seat.”
I pulled two metal chairs from the stack leaning against the wall, unfolded them, and the three of us—the provost marshal, me, and Ernie—sat in a semi-circle in front of WO1 Bufford’s desk.
Most 8th Army GIs, stationed comfortably in Seoul, would consider being sent north to Division as the equivalent of a temporary duty assignment in hell. Now, after only the first few minutes of our sojourn at the 2nd ID, I was starting to understand why.
“I’m so glad you two gentlemen took the time to travel all the way up from Seoul to help us,” Colonel Alcott said. He was smiling even more broadly than he had been when he entered the room. He motioned again with his open palm. “Mr. Bufford has been working around the clock trying to locate Corporal Matthewson. It’s a tragedy that she disappeared. Believe me, it’s touched all of us here deeply. And since it’s been over two weeks that she’s been gone, we thought it would be a good idea to bring in a pair of fresh eyes to review the evidence.”
I glanced sharply at Ernie, warning him not to laugh. The reality of the situation was that Ernie and I had been crammed down Colonel Alcott’s throat. He knew it and we knew it. 8th Army didn’t want any more letters from irate congressmen accusing the 2nd Infantry Division of not being able to keep track of its own female soldiers.
“And I know,” Colonel Alcott continued, “that Mr. Bufford will bring you up to speed on the case right away.”
As if the joints in his neck had been suddenly lubricated, Bufford nodded his head vigorously.
Colonel Alcott glanced at me and then at Ernie. “You’ve read the report. What are your thoughts so far?”
Actually, Ernie hadn’t read the SIR, the serious incident report. Too boring. He left that sort of thing to me. I spoke up.
“Must’ve been something personal, sir,” I said. “No indication that Corporal Matthewson was having trouble in her work. No black marketing indicated by her ration control records. No history of mental disorder.”
Alcott nodded sadly. “True. True enough. So what’s your plan of investigation?”
“Shoe leather,” I said. “Talk to everyone who knew her. Reconstruct her every move up to the moment of her disappearance.”
“We’ve already done that,” Bufford said. “It wasn’t personal. I’m telling you, we’ve already covered that ground. Had to be random. She was attacked by someone she didn’t know, probably a Korean after a rich American. He robbed her, killed her, got rid of the body. We just haven’t found it yet.”
Ernie’s green eyes flashed behind his round-lensed glasses. Here it comes, I thought.
“Robbed her?” Ernie asked, his voice a growl. “Murdered her?”
Buford leaned back reflexively, as if to protect himself from Ernie. “Yes,” he said.
“And how many times,” Ernie asked, “in the more than twenty years since Camp Casey was established, has an American GI been robbed and murdered by a Korean?”
Bufford, confused, glanced at Colonel Alcott for support. Before either could reply, Ernie was back on the attack.
“I’ll tell you how many times,” he said. “Never! Koreans don’t do that. They might slicky money from a GI or cheat him on a business deal or con him out of a few dollars, but they don’t hit and they definitely don’t murder!”
Ernie was right. Korea is a tightly controlled society with a former general for a dictator and the Korean National Police patrolling every street corner. But more importantly, they’re Confucian. They give unquestioning allegiance to their superiors and anyone who so much as threatens physical violence loses face and is forced to slink away in shame. Sure, Koreans become emotional. Often. They’re not called the Irish of the Orient for nothing. And sometimes they punch out one another on the street for everyone, including their neighbors and their ancestors in heaven, to see. But those are personal disputes. And as loud and as prolonged as they sometimes are, no one gets hurt. Violent crime is rare in Korea. And against Americans, it’s unheard of.
“First time for everything,” Bufford said.
“What evidence do you have?” Ernie asked.
Bufford’s face flamed but his thin lips remained taut.
Colonel Alcott jumped in. “She was a woman.”
“That’s evidence?”
“So you think her creamy white flesh drove some Korean mad with lust,” Ernie said.
Colonel Alcott nodded vigorously. “And why not?”
Before Ernie could answer, I jumped in.
“There’s always more evidence to be found,” I told Colonel Alcott. “Ernie and I will go over the same ground again, although I’m sure it’s been covered thoroughly by Mister Bufford. Like you said, sir, ‘a pair of fresh eyes.’ Maybe, just maybe, we might find something new in her personal life.”
“Not possible.” Bufford crossed his arms so tightly that his skinny elbows stuck out like spikes.
Ernie’s face was turning red. He’d heard enough.
“What do you mean, not possible?” he said. “If my partner wants to talk to her acquaintances, he’ll talk to her acquaintances. Until he’s blue in the face if he wants to.”
“Waste of time,” Bufford said.
I was about to say something when Colonel Alcott, once again, raised his open palm.
“Personal,” he said. “I agree. A good place to start. You never know what secrets lurk in someone’s background. You never know what nugget might be turned up that was missed the first time around. Don’t you agree, Mr. Bufford?”
Bufford unfolded his arms and placed his palms flat on his desk, leaning forward. The look on his face was so reverential that, for a moment, I thought he was going to bow. “Absolutely, sir,” he said. “Starting with her personal acquaintances makes sense. That’d be the way to go.”
I glanced back and forth between the two men. The complete 180-degree revolution of opinion that Bufford had just performed was being ignored by both of them. They’ve done this before, I realized. Warrant Officer Bufford floats his ideas, Colonel Alcott floats his, and immediately they agree to do it the colonel’s way.
I glanced at Ernie. He rolled his eyes. His opinion was clear. Colonel Stanley X. Alcott and Warrant Officer Fred Bufford were both nuts.
“Regarding Private Druwood,” I said. “Has the body been examined yet?”
Colonel Alcott swiveled in his chair and studied me head on. Warrant Officer Bufford sat up straighter and re-wrapped his skinny arms around his chest.
“Why, yes,” Colonel Alcott said. “By local staff. The body will be shipped down to the coroner in Seoul later this morning.”
“Suicide?” I asked.
Colonel Alcott grimaced. “Oh, no. Accident. Strictly an accident. But how did you know? The report hasn’t been sent to Seoul yet.”
Ernie’s eyes were as wide as the headlights on his jeep, wondering how I knew all this. I ignored Colonel Alcott’s question and asked one of my own.
“Did Private Druwood know Corporal Jill Matthewson?”
“Know her?” Colonel Alcott glanced toward Bufford but received only a blank stare. “I suppose so,” Alcott replied. “They were both MPs. But there’s no relationship. None at all. Druwood was simply a highly motivated young soldier who hadn’t done well on the obstacle course and he wanted badly to improve his skills. He climbed to the top of the tower in the middle of the night, to practice and gain more confidence we imagine. Unfortunately, he must’ve lost his balance. A tragedy. Head first. Cracked his skull on cement.”
“He was alone?” Ernie asked. “And he climbed to the top of the obstacle course tower in the middle of the night?”
“That’s what the evidence indicates,” Alcott replied.
“Was he a boozer or a druggie? Had he received a Dear John letter?”
“If what you’re implying,” Alcott replied, “is that Private Druwood committed suicide, you’re dead wrong. He was a highly motivated soldier. Dedicated to his mission. Besides,” Alcott added, “there was no note.”
“Alone in the middle of the night,” Ernie said. “Sounds like suicide to me.”
Alcott’s face turned red. He’d had enough. Suicide is one of the problems that the army hates to talk about, but every year in every duty station in the United States and around the world, young GIs take their own lives. What are the reasons? Loneliness. Mental illness. Depression from drugs or alcohol. Harassment from other soldiers. The day-to-day pressures of military life. You name it. But whatever the reasons, the honchos hate to classify any GI death as a suicide. Every commander looks bad when his suicide statistics go up and if there’s an excuse to classify a suicide as an accident, they’ll take it.
Colonel Alcott spread his stubby fingers. A gold wedding band twinkled on his left ring finger. “I think,” he said, slapping his knees, “this concludes our interview.”
As he rose to his feet, the three of us rose also. Then Alcott waggled his forefinger at my nose. “Stay away from Druwood,” he told me. “Corporal Matthewson will keep you busy enough.”
The provost marshal of the 2nd Infantry Division swiveled and left the office.
We were outside of the Provost Marshal’s Office, back in the cold crisp air of the 2nd Division morning, walking across blacktop beneath the shadow of the twenty-foot-tall MP, heading for our jeep. The snow had stopped. Only a few clumps still clung to slumping pine boughs and to the corrugated iron roofs of Quonset huts. Now, in late February, the question everyone kept asking was: Will winter ever end?
Ernie cleared his throat and spit on ice. “How in the hell did you know all that stuff about Druwood?”
“Most of it I guessed,” I said.
“How?”
“Well, Druwood was clearly on everyone’s mind in the Provost Marshal’s Office. Sergeant Otis figured that’s why we’d come up here from Seoul, and the other folks were whispering his name as we walked down the hallway. So something must’ve happened and happened recently. If it was a routine sort of incident—theft, AWOL, a fight in the ville—there wouldn’t be such a consensus of concern. So it must’ve been serious. Death. Not a vehicular accident, Sergeant Otis never would’ve expected Eighth Army CID to come north to investigate that. So it had to be murder. Or at the very least, suicide. The way everybody seemed sympathetic and concerned led me to believe that Druwood must’ve been the victim and not the perpetrator. Therefore, Druwood was dead.”
“But you called him ‘Private Druwood’ right off. How’d you know his rank?”
“If he was an officer, Otis or somebody in the Provost Marshal’s Office would’ve mentioned his rank. The death of an officer is rare in Division and would’ve been remarked upon. So he had to be enlisted. Otis said that Druwood was young.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. You weren’t listening. Young means low rank. Corporal, PFC, private. If he somehow got himself killed maybe he was inexperienced. So I guessed the lowest rank: private. Just lucky on that one.”
Ernie studied me as we walked. “Too bad you didn’t finish high school, Sueño. You might’ve developed some brains.”
When we reached our jeep, Ernie jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Using a stenciled map attached to the serious incident report, I guided him through the maze of Camp Casey, the headquarters compound of the 2nd Infantry Division.
We spent the morning visiting the chow halls and the administrative buildings and the barracks that had been home sweet home to the missing Corporal Jill Matthewson. After inventorying her personal effects, we realized that one complete set of fatigues had disappeared from her room, along with Jill’s MP helmet and her combat boots and her army-issue pistol and her web gear.
Why had Jill packed her full MP regalia? Most GIs, when they go AWOL, don’t take their uniforms. After all, the whole point of bugging out is to flee all things military.
We interviewed the “house girl.” Actually, she was a middle-aged Korean woman allowed on post to clean and do laundry for the female soldiers billeted on Camp Casey. She told us that Jill had also packed a tote bag full of clothes, a hair brush, and other things a woman needs. But not much. Only one pai
r of soft-soled shoes was missing and a couple of blouses and a pair of blue jeans and a skirt. The rest of Jill’s civilian clothes and uniforms were lined up and pressed, hanging neatly inside her open wall locker.
What we did not find, no matter how hard we looked, was the birthday card Jill’s father had sent her when she was five years old.
In ten more days, when Corporal Jill Matthewson had been gone a total of thirty days, she would cease being merely AWOL, absent without leave; she would be dropped from the 2nd Division roles as a deserter. She wouldn’t be facing local punishment anymore; she’d be facing a court-martial. Time in a federal penitentiary would not only be likely but almost a sure thing.
Could Jill have jumped on an airplane and returned to the States?
Not possible. South Korea is a tightly controlled society. Jill’s name and service number—along with the names and service numbers of every AWOL American GI in country—was on a list at the single international airport in Korea: Kimpo, outside of Seoul. The Korean authorities check such lists carefully. Nobody enters or leaves the Republic without the Koreans being damn sure that the person is who they say they are—and that they’re not on any watch list. Another way out of the country is by sea from Pusan, but that embarkation point is watched just as closely as the airport at Kimpo. After that, the only way out of South Korea is across the Demilitarized Zone. Trying to cross the DMZ would be suicide. You’d either be blown up by a landmine or shot by a North Korean soldier.
Jill Matthewson was still in Korea, of that we could be sure. Maybe dead, maybe alive. But still here.
2
Footsteps echoed off distant walls.
The 2nd Infantry Division Central Issue Facility was an open warehouse as big as an aircraft hangar. Far overhead, above gnarled wooden rafters, rays of sunlight fought their way through soot-smeared skylights. The entire facility reeked of damp canvas and decayed mothballs. A cement-floored walkway was lined by square plywood bins, each bin filled to overflowing with steel pots, web gear, helmet liners, wool field trousers, fur-lined parkas, ear-flapped winter headgear, rubber boots, inflatable cold-weather footgear, ammo pouches, and everything the well-dressed combat soldier needs to operate in the country once known as Frozen Chosun.