GI Confidential

by Martin Limon

  “You want us to investigate this, sir?” Ernie asked.

  “Hell no. I want you to find this Katie Byrd Worthington and . . . and . . .”

  “Dump her in the Han River?” Ernie asked helpfully.

  “No. Don’t hurt her. Just bring her here. To me.”

  “If she’s a reporter,” I said, “the Eighth Army Public Affairs Office must’ve issued her credentials. All they have to do is pull them, and she won’t be allowed on base any longer.”

  Colonel Brace shook his head.

  “Two reasons we can’t do that. First, the Overseas Observer has lawyers. They’d raise hell back in the States with the Pentagon and with Congress. Second, it probably wouldn’t do any good. It looks like this woman, Katie Whatever-her-name-is, knows her way around. Even off post she finds a way to gather dirt.” He shook his head again. “There’s too many big-mouthed GIs around willing to give her what she wants.”

  Maybe the GIs would be more circumspect, I thought, if the brass weren’t ordering them to transport hookers.

  “You want us to kidnap Katie Worthington?” Ernie asked.

  Colonel Brace pounded his fist on his desk. “I don’t mean kidnap her, dammit. I just want to talk to her. Find her and convince her to speak to me. That’s all I’m asking.” He glanced back at the photo. “Somebody’s got to put a stop to this.”

  “What if it’s true?” I asked.

  “Especially if it’s true.”

  “Will this issue be on the stands tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Not if I can help it.”

  On the way out of the CID office, neither Ernie nor I were overly concerned about the hookers being transported up to III Corps. We had the bank robbery investigation to worry about, and to us—if not to Colonel Brace—that seemed like more of a life-or-death matter. I kept remembering those employees on the front steps of the Daehan Bank, staring at me, rebuke in their eyes, anguish in their hearts.

  Brace, meanwhile, had to keep the 8th Army honchos happy, and there was nothing they hated more than a scandal—especially a sex scandal. Mainly because of questions the negative press would attract: Were officers misusing funds? Committing infidelities? Ernie and I cared more about bringing our fellow GIs to justice and preventing any other innocent Korean civilians from being murdered. So without telling Brace, we decided to work on our main case before starting our search for the redoubtable Katie Byrd Worthington.

  “Three ways,” I told Ernie, “we might be able to track down the robbers.”

  “Name ’em.”

  “First, find the vehicle. Every Army jeep is assigned to a motor pool and has to be dispatched by a specific soldier. Find the jeep, find the soldier.”

  “Good luck with that,” Ernie said. “There must be two or three dozen US Army motor pools in-country. Some of them with hundreds of vehicles.”

  “Okay, slow, I admit. But possible with enough shoe leather. And faster if we can find something to narrow the search.”

  “Like the unit designation,” he said, “which we don’t have.”

  “Second, the weapons. Every soldier in Eighth Army has a weapons card with their name and unit typed on it, and they have to turn it into the arms room in order to check out a weapon.”

  “And there are more arms rooms than there are motor pools.”

  “Right. I know. A lot of shoe leather. A lot of time. Third is the authorized pass sign in/sign out register.”

  “You think these guys were on pass?”

  “Maybe,” I replied. “Or leave. If they were on duty when they robbed the banks, they risked somebody noticing they were missing and getting suspicious.”

  “Checking sign in/sign out logs at every unit in-country would take forever. Maybe we could issue an announcement on Armed Forces Radio asking supervisors to notify us if they had any men missing during the time periods when the banks were robbed.”

  “The honchos would never allow it. They’re trying to keep this quiet.”

  “Too late. Katie Byrd Worthington already dropped a dime on them.”

  “Maybe something more discreet,” I suggested. “Like a confidential directive from the Chief of Staff to all the subordinate unit commanders, giving them the particulars of the case and asking them to check who amongst their personnel were unaccounted for during the time of the robberies.”

  “Yeah. That might work.”

  “Or it might alert the thieves to what we’re up to.”

  “Yeah. Make them cover their tracks even more carefully than they already have. And at least half the commanders won’t cooperate. Few supervisors like to welcome law enforcement into their commands.”

  “Especially at Division,” I said.

  Ernie nodded his head.

  We knew from hard experience that the honchos of the 2nd US Infantry Division despised interference from the higher headquarters of 8th Army. And they despised anybody like us who wandered into their territory representing 8th Army. It seemed odd that down here on Yongsan Compound, 8th Army Headquarters, Ernie and I were treated like outcasts for our CID positions. But up at Division, we were treated like founding fathers of the 8th Army establishment. Pure hatred.

  “So what do we do?” Ernie asked.

  “We need one more piece of information to set us on the right track.”

  “Like what?”

  “A unit designation, like you said. Or a report from one of the Division MP checkpoints concerning suspicious activity.”

  “We don’t know that the bank robbers are from Division,” Ernie said. “Sure, they drove from the Daehan Bank to Tong-il Lo. But they might’ve turned south toward Seoul instead of continuing north toward the Second Division area.”

  “They might’ve,” I agreed.

  “In fact, they might’ve headed north just to throw us off. They might not be near Division or Seoul at all. They might be from one of the support units down south.”

  “Or the Air Force,” I said.

  “Could be. The eyewitness descriptions of their uniforms were vague. And a Korean citizen, even one who served in the Korean military, isn’t likely to be well versed in the differences in uniforms between branches of the American military service.”

  “These guys could even be American or European civilians,” I said.

  “Don’t side with Eighth Army.”

  “I know, it’s unlikely. I mean how would they have gotten the jeep? How would they have gotten the weapons and the uniforms and the camo stick? But it’s not impossible.”

  “No,” Ernie agreed. “Not impossible. But pretty freaking unlikely.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s assume they’re Army. Maybe Air Force. There are only a handful of Navy and Marine Corps assigned to Korea. So Army, most likely. What would you do if you just received your share of two million won?”

  “Party,” Ernie said.

  “So maybe we come at this from a completely different angle. Maybe we can find some Cheap Charley GIs who are suddenly spending like drunken sailors.”

  “Which would require us to check the bars and nightclubs.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re good at that.”

  “I’ll say,” I said.

  “In fact,” Ernie continued, “I’d say we’re the best anyone has ever seen.”

  I didn’t quibble.

  That night, we started with Itaewon. We talked to everyone we could think of: business girls, cocktail waitresses, bartenders, strippers, even the owners of some of the clubs. Nobody had noticed any GIs spending wildly. “All Cheap Charley,” one woman told us, waving her hand to indicate the whole of the US military. “Cheap Charley GI, they never spend nothing.”

  That seemed like somewhat of an exaggeration.

  To keep up appearances, Ernie and I quaffed down cold OB Beer and watered-down bourbon, and by the end
of the night, all we received for our efforts other than a long string of negative reports were two serious cases of inebriation. And in the morning, two hangovers.

  Unfortunately, no leads.

  Somehow, the next day—a Sunday—Colonel Brace, or perhaps the 8th Army Chief of Staff, had convinced the PX Manager not to put the Overseas Observer on sale. The spot where it should’ve stood on shelves was empty. That probably wasn’t legal, but they didn’t call 8th Army 8th Imperial Army for nothing. Still, their plan to keep salacious dirt away from the troops backfired. Within hours, Korean boys were selling the Overseas Observer outside the gate at 1,000 won a pop. Two bucks. And GIs were paying it. Apparently, word about hookers being transported to the DMZ had spread faster than free beer before payday.

  At noon, Strange met us at the snack bar, so excited he forgot to ask if we’d had any strange lately. Instead, he leaned forward, glancing left and right, and stealthily pulled a folded tabloid out of his back pocket.

  “Have you read this?” he asked, shoving a copy of the Overseas Observer toward us.

  “It’s come to our attention,” I replied.

  “Prime female stuff, on its way north for the enjoyment of our self-sacrificing commanders leading the defense of the Free World. Not that they don’t deserve a little R&R. It’s just, what’s in it for the troops? That’s what I want to know.”

  “Nothing’s in it for the troops,” Ernie said.

  “That’s what I mean. It ain’t fair.”

  “Would it be fair if you were invited to the party?”

  “Sure. That’s all I’m asking, just a little strange.”

  I’d heard enough. “You don’t know that this article has any truth in it at all.”

  “Of course it’s true,” Strange replied, hitting the tabloid with the back of his hand. “It’s all right here, chapter and verse.”

  “That reporter could’ve made everything up.”

  “What about the photo? That doesn’t lie.”

  “You don’t know when that picture was taken, or who those women are. You don’t even know where the picture was taken.”

  “Look here,” Strange said, “those girders in front of the truck. That’s Freedom Bridge.” The military-controlled bridge that crossed the Imjin River and led directly to the DMZ.

  I glanced at the photo. “Could be. But maybe not. There are a lot of bridges like that in the world.”

  “Look at the unit designation down here,” Strange said, pointing to the back bumper of the three-quarter-ton truck. He brought it closer to his eyes, lifted his shades, and studied it. Finally he said, “That’s the five-ninety-something MP Company.”

  “Let me see that,” Ernie said, grabbing the paper out of his hands. He looked closely at the photo and said, “Bull. Too fuzzy. You can’t make nothing out.”

  “I’ve got twenty-twenty vision,” Strange told him.

  “Then why do you wear shades all the time?”

  “To keep the women off me.”

  “They wouldn’t be able to control themselves otherwise?”

  “You got it.”

  “God, you’re cracked,” Ernie said.

  “Tell us,” I told Strange, “what’s the reaction to all this up at the head shed?”

  He looked around again as if expecting a spy to pop out of a potted plant. Then he grabbed his throat and rasped. “Can’t talk on a dry throat.”

  “Hot chocolate again?”

  “With two marshmallows.”

  This time, Ernie got up to buy it. After he left, I said, “Okay, spill.”

  “Not till I get my hot chocolate.”

  “Now,” I said.

  “Okay, okay. Don’t get antsy.” He leaned toward me and whispered, “The honchos are pissed. At the broad who wrote the article, sure, but also the MPs who ratted on their commanders. But there’s more.”

  I motioned for him to go on, but he crossed his arms and frowned like a petulant child. Ernie brought the hot chocolate and purposely sloshed some of it onto the table top. Strange pulled a napkin out of the holder and sopped up the warm brown liquid.

  “You’re clumsy,” he said.

  “I’ll show you clumsy,” Ernie said, knuckling his fist.

  “Okay, okay.” Strange dropped the second and then the third moist napkin into a thin pile.

  “So,” I said. “The honchos are angry at the reporter and at the MPs who talked to her. What else?”

  Strange sipped on his hot chocolate, set it down, and said, “They’re angry at Lawrence of the Frozen Chosun.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s what they’re calling him up at the head shed. Lieutenant General Abner Jennings Crabtree, Commander of First Corps. In charge of all the divisions along the DMZ, including the ROK Army Third Corps.”

  “Why are they angry at him? Because of this party?”

  “Not that. They could care less about that. Or they wouldn’t have, if word hadn’t gotten out. What they’re worried about is that General Crabtree is getting too big for his britches; he’s pointing out flaws in our defensive posture, making his superiors look bad. And he’s gone native. That’s why they call him Lawrence of the Frozen Chosun. He speaks Korean and everything.”

  As Strange sipped his hot chocolate again, I said, “There something wrong with speaking Korean?”

  “Yeah. You ought to know. You start speaking Korean, and pretty soon the Koreans lose respect for you, and sooner than that they’re leading you around by the nose and you lose sight of why in the hell we’re over here.”

  He had my attention now. “So why are we over here?”

  “To civilize the natives,” he said. With that he picked up a spoon and shoveled both the soggy marshmallows into his mouth. Once they were firmly in place, he set down his cup and started chewing. Mouth open. I looked away, trying to hide my disgust. Ernie smirked, staring straight at Strange.

  When Strange finally swallowed, it seemed like the entire mush lowered itself visibly down his gullet past three or four roadblocks, like a ship making its way through a canal strewn with muck.

  “Korean culture is older than American culture,” I pointed out to Strange.

  “See? You’ve gone native. So has General Crabtree. They say he wears a papa-san outfit and everything.”

  Strange meant hanbok, the loose cotton pantaloons and tunic covered by a sleeveless silk vest traditionally worn by men of the educated elite known as yangban.

  “And Crabtree pretty much lives along the DMZ amongst the ROK Army units. The more isolated, the better. Those units guarding the mountain passes between North and South Korea.”

  “That’s his job, isn’t it?” Ernie asked. “To make sure the ROK Army is combat-ready?”

  “Why doesn’t he do that the way everybody else does? The way that makes more sense?”

  “Which is what?” I asked.

  “By studying reports.”

  “Paperwork,” Ernie said, his voice filled with disdain.

  Strange sat up straighter. “What’s wrong with paperwork?” As head of the Classified Documents Section, Strange lived and died by paperwork.

  “Sounds to me,” I said, “like this General Crabtree is a pretty good officer.”

  “Says you. But Eighth Army was out to get him before. With this Oversexed Observer article, he’s absolute toast.”

  “Whether it’s true or not?” I said.

  “Who gives a shit about whether it’s true or not?” Once again, Strange rapped the paper with the back of his hand. “This gives them ammo.”

  “So why doesn’t the Eighth Army Commander fire him?”

  “Are you nuts?” Strange asked.

  “Some people think so.”

  “Eighth Army can’t fire General Crabtree. His father was a four-star general, his uncle a World War II her
o.”

  “So?”

  “Revenge. The Eighth Army Commander has two sons and a daughter in the Army. Crabtree doesn’t have any sons, but he’s got seven nephews, all in uniform with fast-track careers in front of them. You know, it’s like they say up in North Korea—you execute one man, you have to execute two other generations along with him. Otherwise, one of the relatives will come back to get you.”

  “All those nephews are commissioned officers?”

  “Every one,” Strange said. “It’s the family business.”

  “So what’s Eighth Army gonna do about Lieutenant General Crabtree?”

  “Let him twist in the wind. See if the legitimate news outlets pick up the story and how they handle it.”

  “And see if it gets back to Congress?”

  “Oh, it’ll get back to Congress.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The Chief of Staff purchased twenty copies of today’s Oversexed Observer. They’ve already been sent anonymously to powerful people in the Senate, the House, and the Pentagon.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “How do I know anything?”

  “Because you’re a genius,” Ernie said facetiously.

  “You better believe it,” Strange replied, ignoring his tone.

  “But you can’t be sure they were mailed,” I said. “You don’t have certified return receipts.”

  “No. But I know.”

  “How?”

  “Because I licked the stamps and put ’em on the envelopes and mailed ’em myself about an hour ago,” Strange told us.

  -8-

  Strange said he’d only mailed the front page of the Overseas Observer, thereby excluding the article concerning the bank robberies. Eighth Army still wanted to keep the news of American GIs robbing and terrorizing and murdering innocent Korean citizens quiet for as long as they could. Which didn’t seem like much longer, what with Katie Byrd Worthington running around loose.