by Martin Limon
Looking exhausted, the go-go girl climbed down from her platform. I glanced at the jukebox. She watched me warily. I grinned and waved my hand to indicate I wasn’t about to pop in a quarter and force her to dance to an empty room. She had it hard enough.
She sat at an empty table, placed her cheek in her open palm, and closed her eyes.
“A drunk Indian,” Ernie said.
“God, Ernie. Don’t talk that way when you meet Sergeant Major Tapia.”
“I thought I was supposed to call him Screech Owl.”
“You are, but you can show a little respect.”
How we were going to work this out, I wasn’t quite sure. Katie Byrd was waiting off base again. Even though she had a press credential that allowed her access to every US military compound in Korea—aside from top-secret restricted areas—she preferred, whenever possible, to remain off base.
When we asked her why, she said, “Once an MP spots my credentials at the main gate, the first thing he does is get on the horn and notify the head honcho and God and everybody else. Before you know it, a directive is issued, and everyone on base is under orders to zip it.”
“SOL,” Ernie said.
“You got that right. Shit out of luck.”
Ernie studied her. “You’ve been working with the Army too long.”
“What do you mean?”
“You talk like a GI. And a foul-mouthed one, at that.”
“Up yours,” Katie said.
Once I mentioned our meeting with General Crabtree and Screech Owl Tapia, Katie said she wanted in.
“You can’t,” I told her.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because this is part of our official investigation, not a news conference.”
“An official investigation where you decide on the lies you’ll tell the rest of the world?”
“No, you’re twisting my words.”
“You’ll get over it. All I want to do is sit down, talk to Crabtree. He’s a big boy—he can answer or not as he sees fit. And when we’re done, we can all drive up to ROK Army Third Corps and get their side of the story.”
“You don’t ask for much, huh?” Ernie said.
“Only the truth,” Katie Byrd said.
Ernie and I were trying to mollify Katie and stop the photograph from being published, and at the same time avoid being skinned alive by 8th Army for aiding the enemy. In this case, “the enemy” being an Overseas Observer reporter by the name of Katie Byrd Worthington, who couldn’t leave this story alone. It was a delicate balance. All we could do was take one precarious step at a time, clinging to a very slippery cliff, and repeatedly telling ourselves not to look down.
That evening at eighteen-forty-five hours, we tracked down the barbecue spot Chonwon Bulkalbi almost by mouthwatering scent alone. It was a rustic little place catering mainly to tired Korean office workers who wanted to loosen their ties, roll up their sleeves, and relax with good cheap food and maybe a few shots of soju with a co-worker or two. There weren’t any Americans here and no hints that any ever patronized the place. The menu, brief and to the point, was written in hangul on a whiteboard on the side wall. In addition to bulkalbi, it listed bulkogi, marinated beef, and one of my favorites, dengsim gu-i, sliced flank steak. We took a table near the front window.
“I’ll wait outside,” Katie told us.
I figured she was going for a last smoke. But through the signage on the front window, we spotted her trotting off into the night.
“She’s headed toward the Grand Hotel.”
“With her camera,” I said, groaning.
“Who knows what that broad has in mind?”
“We’re up against it, Ernie. She’s pushing us around. Treating us like a couple of punks.”
“You just noticed?”
“Maybe we should call her bluff. Tell her to stuff it.”
“And let her publish that photo in the Overseas Observer? What are you, nuts? Two military law enforcement officers flat on their backs and a local dame dressed up in an evening gown saving them from the bad guys with a gun leveled.”
“It’s not an evening gown,” I said. “It’s a cocktail dress.”
“Who are you, Coco Chanel? Who gives a damn what kind of dress it is? The point is, it’s a dress, and she’s a woman and we’re supposed to be men.”
“We are,” I said. “Officer Kang helping us out a little doesn’t change that.”
“Oh, yeah? You tell that to Riley and Strange and Colonel Brace and the Eighth Army Chief of Staff. See if a single one believes it. Or any one of the ten-thousand GIs who will see that photograph in the Oversexed Observer and turn us into laughingstocks. And what will those same GIs do when they see us show up for an investigation? Probably ask us where the broad is who’s supposed to save our asses.”
A middle-aged Korean woman with a white apron and a matching bandana atop her head approached our table and asked, “Muol duhshi-keissoyo?” What’ll you have?
I told her we were waiting for a couple of friends, and that we’d just take barley tea for now. She slapped two handle-less earthen cups in front of us and poured warm tea from a brass pot. After she waddled away, Ernie said, “We have to play ball with Katie Byrd Worthington. We’ve got no choice.”
I could tell how wrapped up Ernie’s ego was in that photo’s potential publication. While mine was, too, I figured I could weather the storm better than he could. If the picture did come out and someone said something to me about it, I’d consider the source—usually a GI who hadn’t read a book since his first-grade teacher read Dr. Seuss to him and the whole class. As for Ernie, I had no doubt how he’d react—with violence. He couldn’t beat up every GI who read the Overseas Observer, but he would try. And long before he reached that goal, he’d be in the psych ward.
“It’s like in those old British movies,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“You know how they say that thing when they’re in a tight spot? Katie Byrd Worthington has us by the short and curlies.”
“Speaking of which,” Ernie said.
Lieutenant General Abner Jennings Crabtree and Command Sergeant Major Screech Owl Tapia walked into the glow of the floodlight out front, both in civilian suits, looking like a couple of bankers rather than military men. Inside, the portly proprietress scurried out from behind her work counter, smiling broadly, and bowed deeply as they entered. They spotted us, and General Crabtree frowned and whispered something to Sergeant Major Tapia.
Tapia nodded and walked toward us. “Let’s sit in back,” he said. “Old habit from Vietnam.”
“Fragging,” Ernie said.
The Sergeant Major looked at him and said, “So you’ve been there.”
Within seconds, the proprietress had taken Crabtree’s coat, and he’d loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. Sitting there with his hairy arms resting on the round wooden table, he now looked like an off-duty plumber ready to chow down at his favorite diner. He held up his hand and said, “Don’t salute. I’ve had enough of that crap today.”
Instead, we shook hands and pulled up stools to sit. The proprietress buzzed around us and General Crabtree ordered for the table in Korean: four plates of sliced short ribs. Everything else—the rice, various types of kimchi, panchan side dishes, lettuce leaves, deinjang bean paste, and the plates of fresh garlic cloves—came gratis with the meal. The general looked at Ernie and me and said, “You through drinking that barley tea crap?”
We told him we were, and he ordered four liters of cold OB Beer and two bottles of Jinro soju.
Before she hurried away, the proprietress lit the gas burner beneath the barbecue plate in the center of the table. When the beer arrived, General Crabtree employed the two handed etiquette used in polite Korean society to pour beer into our glasses, which we
held out in turn. Then he allowed Sergeant Major Tapia to fill his glass to the brim with the frothing liquid. Once everyone was served, Crabtree raised his glass in a toast and said, “To the ROK Army Third Corps.”
We all raised our glasses and drank, then went through the ritual again.
Using shears, the proprietress sliced the short rib meat from its bones and laid the resulting strips flat on the barbecue grill, where it began to sizzle. Crabtree popped a few cloves of garlic onto the hot metal, and after the proprietress left, used his wooden chopsticks to flip the meat.
I was surprised that he spoke Korean so well, and that he was so attuned to Korean custom. But I was most surprised by the way he treated me and Ernie as equals despite our difference in rank.
“Okay, Screech Owl,” he said. “You wanna tell me why these two cops are up here hounding me?”
“They say they want to know about that picture that appeared in Sunday’s issue of the Overseas Observer.”
“Total bull,” General Crabtree said, staring at Ernie and then me. “The photograph’s real, but the circumstances described in the story are a complete fabrication.”
We poured shots of soju all around, and Crabtree said to Tapia, “You want to do the honors?”
He did. The I Corps Command Sergeant Major raised the thimble-sized glass of fiery rice liquor, and said, “To all lying bitch reporters. May they rot in hell.”
We started to drink when footsteps approached from behind. “I heard that!” Katie Byrd Worthington said as she snapped a photograph of the four of us enjoying a traditional Korean feast.
Enraged, Screech Owl rose from the table and reached his giant mitts toward the fragile neck of Katie Byrd Worthington. But before he could touch her, she hopped forward and snapped a kick to his balls. To my surprise, her small boot landed right on target.
The Sergeant Major stood up straighter, apparently experiencing a momentary state of shock, and then keeled forward, writhing in agony. Katie Byrd’s bulb flashed and she took another picture, this one of him clutching himself and grimacing. While he struggled to regain control, she snapped a third. Crabtree was on his feet now, not furious, as I expected, but apparently amused by the entire scene. Instead of ordering Ernie and me to take Katie Byrd into custody, he stood relaxed with his hands on his hips, his creased face assessing the situation before breaking out into a wide grin.
Ernie and I tried to help the Sergeant Major, but there was nothing we could do other than stop him from falling. I expected Katie Byrd to scamper away—in fact, I was hoping she would, and never come back. Instead, she remained, shuffling from side to side and testing angles while occasionally snapping another photograph of Crabtree.
Though solicitous of Sergeant Major Tapia, Crabtree could barely hide his laughter. Once the Sergeant Major sat back down on his stool, still clutching his groin and leaning forward and groaning, Crabtree motioned toward Katie Byrd and said, “Will you stop kicking my men in the balls, please?”
“I’ll take it under consideration,” Katie Byrd replied.
He turned toward the Sergeant Major, placed his hand on his shoulder, and said, “A tough old street fighter like you? I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”
“That was cheating on her part,” Screech Owl said. “Girls aren’t supposed to kick.”
Crabtree turned toward Katie and said, “Why don’t you pull up a seat?”
Surprised, Katie glanced around, spotted an empty stool, and dragged it toward the table between Ernie and me, opposite the still-moaning Sergeant Major Tapia. Ernie and I sidled away from her, not wanting to be associated with this madwoman from the tabloid most despised by the 8th United States Army.
Once she sat, Katie adjusted the strap of her Nikon and shoved it toward her back, then reached forward and grabbed an earthen cup of barley tea. She poured the cold tea on the floor and refilled the cup with beer from one of the brown OB bottles.
She grabbed an extra set of chopsticks, broke the wood apart, and started helping herself to generous portions of the roasting short rib flesh and blackened cloves of fresh garlic. Without permission, she palmed my bowl of rice and shoved a generous dollop of steaming carbs into her mouth. With a bulge in the side of her cheek, she chewed lustily, finally swallowing enough to say to General Crabtree. “So why’d you take those hookers up to Third Corps?”
He laughed uproariously.
The Sergeant Major had started to return to form and was sitting up straighter with his hands on his knees. Other than looking like he was about to hurl, he seemed almost normal. General Crabtree poured some beer for his Command Sergeant Major and bade him drink. He did, swallowing a timid sip.
“Who in the hell told you I was running those girls up to Third Corps?” General Crabtree asked.
“I don’t reveal my sources,” Katie replied.
“Well, whoever it was, they’re feeding you a load of bull. That photo you ran showed a truck full of women crossing Freedom Bridge, that’s true, but they weren’t going up to Third Corps. They were coming back.”
Katie shrugged. “A good pimp escorts his girls home after a night’s work.”
“There’s no such thing as a good pimp,” Crabtree said.
He sipped some more beer and, realizing we were almost out, shouted across the room, “Ajumma, meikju juo, nei byong.” It was a minor detail, but “nei byong” was the precise wording for four bottles, whereas most foreigners would’ve said “nei gei,” which was more general and translated loosely as “four pieces.” Crabtree knew his Korean.
When the old woman arrived with four bottles, she didn’t bring Katie an extra glass, instead allowing her to continue to use the earthen cup. Her way, I imagined, of showing her disapproval of this newcomer kicking a grown man and a good paying customer in the crotch.
After we refreshed our glasses, General Crabtree toasted again. We drank and set the glassware down. He leaned toward Katie and said, “I was helping those women, Ms. Worthington, not pimping them.”
This surprised Katie. She set down her chopsticks and pulled out a steno pad and a pen. Poised to write, she said, “Tell me.”
General Crabtree did.
While the tang of burnt meat drifted through Chonwon Bulkalbi, General Crabtree said he would authorize us to travel north to the ROK Army III Corps. He wanted us to interview the South Korean commander there, Major General Bok Jung-nam, and ask around for ourselves, for us to corroborate the story he was about to tell me and Katie and Ernie.
-15-
According to General Crabtree, he and Sergeant Major Tapia had traveled far and wide along the five ROK divisions protecting the DMZ. Not only by helicopter or jeep, but often on foot. They’d hiked rugged mountain trails, taking a personal look at the defensive fortifications and examining the fields of fire. They even spoke to many of the ROK Army troops who manned those lonely outposts, facing across the wire at the North Korean soldiers who were sometimes no more than a literal stone’s throw away. These forays into the wilds of the DMZ were detested by Korean Army brass. They were afraid of any problems the Americans might uncover. Ones that might embarrass the local commander and cause him or his superior to be overlooked on the next promotion list, or worse, be relieved of command.
“They spied on us every step of the way,” General Crabtree said, reaching with his chopsticks for another thick slice of peichu kimchi, “sweating the reports we turned into Eighth Army. They tried to compromise us more than once.”
“How so?” Katie asked, interrupting.
Crabtree shrugged. “The usual way.”
“With women?”
“Sure. In local villages, they’d send some low-ranking officer to meet us, find us a room at a country inn, and feed us a spread like this.” He waved his chopsticks to indicate the entire table of food. “Then hostesses would come in, and if we wanted to take them back to our rooms,
we could.”
“Did you?”
“I didn’t.”
We all looked at Sergeant Major Tapia. He stared straight ahead impassively, not answering, not moving a muscle on his face, still livid at Katie Byrd Worthington’s earlier breach of etiquette.
None of it seemed to bother Katie. “So what about the Third Corps?” she asked.
“A nice headquarters,” General Crabtree said. “Excellent Commo and Intel Shop, rapid execution of command directives, and a terrific direct observation point for a vast expanse of the DMZ.”
“So they’re on a mountain?”
General Crabtree nodded. “And General Bok Jung-nam is a sharp cookie. Knows his business.”
“But you’re saying you didn’t take girls up there for him?”
“They were already there.”
“Already there?”
“You got it.”
Katie scribbled in her notebook, then she placed the tip of her pen to her lower lip, thinking. She asked, “Blondes?”
Crabtree shrugged. “Mostly. But a couple of brunettes.”
“Were all these women reserved for General Bok?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“But they were brought out when you and the Sergeant Major arrived. Along with a couple of bottles of Johnnie Walker Black, I’d guess.” The Korean party drink of status.
“I don’t drink scotch,” General Crabtree said. “Too rough on the body. A little beer, a little soju, plus some food—these are natural. The next morning, I’m always ready to run six miles—or hike twenty.” He turned to Sergeant Major Tapia. “Right, Screech Owl?”
The Sergeant Major, eyes half-closed, mouth tight, nodded his head slowly. I imagined he was wishing he was somewhere else, far removed from anything having to do with Katie Byrd Worthington.
“So were these women being paid for their services,” Katie asked, “or what?”
“I suppose. Most didn’t speak English. European, I think. Maybe Greek, maybe Turkish? But one did speak for the group. According to her, they’d been recruited at various dives in Seoul. For the most part, they didn’t know each other, since many of them were from different countries, but foreign women—in the same line of work—were targets of resentment here in Korea, so they had to stick together. Eventually, they were driven up to ROK Army Third Corps voluntarily, thinking they’d be serving a party of Korean Army officers for a long weekend. Instead, they’d been up there for almost a month. When they asked to be taken back to Seoul, they’d been told that no vehicles were available. After pestering and pestering, one of them finally had a chance to speak to General Bok. He told the woman they’d be returned to Seoul when it was convenient for him and not sooner. When she persisted, she received a black eye.”
