by Martin Limon
The intersection in downtown Pocheon was dark and deserted now. Ernie turned left, heading back toward Uijongbu, and as he did so, I noticed a kimchi cab with its overhead light turned off pull out of an alley and follow us at a distance of about fifty yards. Whoever it was, I thought he was bold, since we were well into the midnight-to-four a.m. curfew. It was about two in the morning.
I leaned my head out the side of the jeep to see if he was still following, but he was a little too far to tell now. I thought I saw him through the low-lying fog, but I wasn’t sure.
“What?” Ernie asked.
“Just a kimchi cab,” I replied.
“Probably trying to sneak home.”
“I suppose.”
-23-
At Uijongbu, we turned left, and about ten miles later we reached the northernmost edge of Seoul. At every ROK Army roadblock—and there were plenty of them—we had to get out of the jeep, show our identification, and produce our emergency dispatch. So far, we Americans were viewed as neutral in whatever dispute was going on between the units guarding the capital and General Bok’s III Corps. Still, everyone was frisked, including Katie. She screeched at the ROK Army soldier and slapped his hands away, which amused him to no end. The others made fun of the assaulted soldier as he held his wrist in mock pain.
By the time we reached downtown Seoul and the area in front of Guanghua-mun, the Gate of the Transformation of Light, the city was eerily quiet. We climbed out of the jeep and looked around.
“Why no tanks?” Ernie asked.
“Too early,” General Crabtree said. “Besides, Bok’s heading for Gukbang-bu.” The Ministry of National Defense, which was on the southern edge of the city. “That’ll be his first objective. He’ll take over that and then the Korean Broadcasting System, and once he has Park Chung-hee surrounded in the presidential palace, he’ll announce the creation of a new government.”
“And during all this, Eighth Army’s keeping its hands off?” I asked.
“That’s the policy.”
“But you don’t agree with it,” I said.
“No way in hell.”
“Why not?”
“Korea needs to move forward, not backward.”
Before I could ask what he meant by that, small arms fire erupted on the eastern edge of the city.
“Damn,” Crabtree said. “They’re moving faster than I thought.”
“We don’t have much time now, sir,” Screech Owl said.
General Crabtree nodded, thinking it over. He scanned the area around the two-story-tall edifice of Guanghua-mun.
“No sign of her,” Screech Owl told him.
“No. Maybe she’s on her way. Or maybe she was stopped. No way to be sure.”
More explosions in the distance, a deeper rumbling sound.
“Tanks,” Ernie said.
Screech Owl and Crabtree’s eyes met. They came to some sort of agreement. The general turned toward us. “Estella’s late. I can’t wait for her.” He placed his hands on his hips. “I was going to ask her to try to get this thing called off somehow. But there’s no more time.” He glanced around at the dark buildings surrounding us, sighed deeply, and said, “Here’s what we’re going to do. You three stay here.” He motioned toward me and Ernie and Katie Byrd Worthington. “We’re taking the jeep.”
“That’s my jeep,” Ernie said. “The tuck and roll alone cost me twenty thousand won.”
Every payday, Ernie slipped the head dispatcher at the 21 T-Car motor pool a bottle of Johnny Walker Black to keep this jeep set aside for him and to keep it tuned up, topped off with gas, and maintained in Indy-500 condition.
“It’s not your jeep,” Screech Owl growled. “It’s the Army’s jeep.”
Ernie reached in and plucked out the clipboard. “But my name’s on the dispatch.”
“A general officer can countermand that.”
General Crabtree interrupted. “No time for this now. The Sergeant Major and I have to reach Gukbang-bu, and fast.” He turned to Katie. “If you make contact with Estella, tell her she has to stop this. Too many lives are at stake.”
Screech Owl snatched the dispatch out of Ernie’s hands, turned, and stepped toward the jeep.
Furious, Ernie shot him a look, but he knew he was powerless against the order of a general officer. “Okay,” he said, as if he were making the choice. “But don’t lose that damn gearshift knob. I paid good money for it.”
It was one of his most prized possessions—the grinning face of a red devil glowing in the dark.
“You got it,” Crabtree said.
They climbed into the jeep. General Crabtree behind the wheel. Sergeant Major Screech Owl in the passenger seat.
After they drove off, Katie said, “Come on. We have to find Estella.”
“I thought she told you to wait here for her?”
“Yeah. But in case she was late, she gave me directions.”
“Why didn’t you tell Crabtree?”
“Pooh on him.”
“You don’t trust him,” I said.
“He’s a man, isn’t he?”
It was a long hike from Guanghua-mun to the Buddhist shrine on the side of Inwang Mountain. It wasn’t much of a mountain, but rather a steep hill linked to the wall of jagged precipices lined with stone defensive walls guarding the northern reaches of Seoul.
Huffing and puffing, we climbed the last few stone steps to the large wooden platform on which the Buddhist shrine sat. Candlelit paper lanterns hung from rafters. In the center, a placid Buddha with a pleasingly plump belly smiled contentedly at us.
“The same one we saw at ROK Army Third Corps,” Ernie said.
There were many types of Buddha, the Gautama Buddha being the most recognizable in image. Based on what I’d seen, the Maitreya Buddha was the most popular in Korea. This one was smooth and bronze, smiling slightly with his right ankle crossed over his left knee.
Katie slipped off her shoes, stepped up on the varnished flooring, knelt, and bowed. Ernie and I stood at the edge of the foundation, first glancing around to see if we were alone, then turning and gazing into the crater of the city. Through the fog off to the east, we could occasionally see flashes of red light, accompanied by muffled booms.
“Tank fire,” Ernie said.
“Christ. These guys are getting serious.”
“They’ve been serious,” Ernie said.
A muffled rat-a-tat-tat of small arms accompanied the tank explosions.
“It’s mostly aimed one way,” Ernie said. “The poor guys defending the city are outgunned.”
The other ROK Army tank battalions, of which there were many, were arrayed thirty miles or more north along the DMZ, facing the North Koreans. No one had expected a force of South Korean soldiers to turn on their own comrades and attack the capital.
Discipline in the South Korean army was absolute. Soldiers had been beaten, tortured, and thrust into solitary confinement for the pettiest of offenses. A few had even been executed. As a result, orders were followed without the type of second-guessing and questioning that was so prevalent in the American army. And soldiers were kept isolated on their bases from broader Korean society. Often, they didn’t hear radio newscasts or watch television. The information they did get was written down by their commanding officers and read to them by senior NCOs as they stood at attention in unit formations.
So far, Bok’s tank battalions had held up well. No one had wavered in the performance of what they considered to be their duty. Although many on the outside would have considered this so-called “duty” to be armed insurrection, even treason.
I turned to Katie. “When is this Estella supposed to get here?”
Just as I said it, a figure appeared out of the mist and walked slowly into the light of the overhead lamp. Katie rose to her feet and stepped in front of the Buddha,
and the two women embraced. Arm-in-arm, they walked toward us.
Katie introduced us, using our full names, as polite as I’d ever seen her. The name given for the woman was Estella, only that. She had long curly black hair, and wasn’t tall, but slender, with an even-featured face with flawless skin that complemented a noncommittal stare. Her narrow, dark-brown eyes added to her beauty.
I shook her cool hand.
“Are you going to tell us what’s happening?” I asked. “Who you are?”
She pulled her hand back. “You’ll find out soon,” she said, her English barely accented.
“You mean after the coup? After General Bok takes over?”
When she didn’t answer, Ernie interrupted, impatient now. “Are you American CIA? Is that it? You guys just got tired of Park Chung-hee? Thought it was time for somebody a little more to your liking?”
“Not the CIA,” she said calmly. “It’s bigger than foreigners meddling in our affairs.”
“But . . . you’re a foreigner,” I said.
“No.” Her eyes flashed with an icy anger. “I’m not.” She looked around at all of us, including Katie, who seemed to have taken an almost reverential posture toward her. “Come,” Estella said. “The temple extends up the side of the hill. I’ll show you.”
She turned and walked away from the fat bronze idol, following a flagstone pathway that wound in a circuitous route up the hill. After about fifty yards, she pushed through an old wooden gate and held it open for us to follow.
We ducked beneath a low overhang.
A courtyard extended into the side of the hill, ending at a light-green stucco wall. At the doorway, we slipped off our shoes and stepped up onto wooden flooring. Estella led us through another door, a sliding one made of teak that was embossed with one phoenix rising after another. Inside sat a brass pot on a small diesel space heater. Beside it, leaning forward on a rocking chair, was an old man. He wore slippers and a white shirt covered by two or three sweaters with collars of soft fur. A felt blanket covered his knees. He looked over at us as we entered, a smile creasing his round face.
Estella bowed and said something to him I didn’t understand, and I realized that she was speaking Japanese. The old man nodded, grinned at us again, and said in Korean, “Anyonghaseiyo?”
Estella followed his lead and started speaking Korean, less than fluently, I thought, and with an unusual accent. “This is my friend Katie,” she said. “The one I told you about. She’ll make sure our story is told to the world.”
The old man, still smiling, nodded toward Katie, clearly entertained by having so many young people in front of him.
“These two men,” Estella said, “are from the US Army. So far, they know nothing about our plans. Before I explained it to them, I wanted them to meet you first.”
The old man nodded and reached out a withered hand. Both Ernie and I stepped forward and shook. His palm and his fingers were smooth, and as cold as if they’d been stored in a freezer.
“His name is Yi Il,” Estella said. Yi the First. “He is third cousin to the late Crown Prince, last surviving heir to the Chosun Dynasty throne.”
“Okay,” Ernie said curtly. “Are we supposed to bow or something?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. Not until his investiture.”
“‘Investiture?’” Ernie said.
“When they crown him king,” I whispered.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Ernie blew out air, pissed with all the formality. “Okay now, Estella. We’ve put up with your mystery. Are you going to tell us what the hell is going on, or what?”
“Don’t be rude,” Katie said.
“What’s rude about wanting to know why we’re being led around by the nose?”
“Swearing in front of someone you’ve just met is rude!” Katie insisted.
“I don’t give a shit if it’s rude,” Ernie replied. He threw his hands up. “Will somebody tell me what’s going on here?”
Katie was about to say something else, but I spoke first. “I think I know.”
Ernie turned to me, open-mouthed. “Well then, what?”
Katie and Estella studied me, surprised.
“This gentleman,” I said, motioning toward the grandfather, “has just returned to Korea after a long absence.” I paused, taking a deep breath, wondering if I was about to make a fool of myself, and yet not giving a damn. But it had all clicked suddenly. His Buddhist faith. The young Japanese-speaking woman treating him with reverence. The probable backing of General Bok by what was left of the old-money elite here in Korea, fueled by their barely hidden disdain for upstart President Park Chung-hee and dissatisfaction with his brutal and corrupt regime. What powerful force could overthrow that regime with arms alone? There was only one thing that could change Korea’s political fate, wrenching loose the iron hold of its authoritarian leader without tearing the country apart: tradition.
“This gentleman, Mr. Yi Il,” I continued, “is a member of the royal family. A man with a claim to the title of heir to the throne of the Chosun Dynasty. Only now back in Korea after being held for decades in Japan.”
“Not held,” Estella said. “Exiled.”
I was right then. I took another deep breath and continued. “General Bok and some of the prominent Korean families who support him want to restore the monarchy.”
Tears glistened in Estella’s eyes. “Yes,” she said.
Katie pulled out her notebook and started scribbling.
“This guy’s a king?” Ernie said, motioning toward the old man.
Without looking up from her notebook, Katie said, “Show some respect!”
“He’s related to kings,” I corrected. “When the Japanese took over in 1910, they kidnapped the Korean crown prince, Yi Un. In Japan, they later forced him to marry a woman of Japanese royal blood.”
“They didn’t force him,” Estella said. “It was love.”
Ernie ignored her. “Why?” he asked.
“To forge an official liaison between Korea and Japan. But they never sent the crown prince back. There was more anti-Japanese sentiment amongst the Korean populace than they had bargained for. And after the Sam-il Movement, the remnants of the Korean royal family were held in Japan for good.”
On March 1st, 1919, the entire country had erupted in strikes and protests called the Sam-il Movement, sam-il for March first. The Japanese army had put it down brutally, murdering many Korean patriots and spurring an already deep-seated resentment.
“It’s not like that,” Estella said. “Misguided trade unionists and socialists were behind the uprising. The Korean people loved Tennō.”
“Who?” Ernie asked.
“Tennō,” I said. “The Japanese emperor.”
“Loved the Japanese emperor?” Ernie scoffed. “Not according to the Koreans I talk to.”
Katie stopped scribbling. “You only talk to bar girls and strippers.”
“Yeah,” Ernie said. “So?”
The old man seemed upset by our conversation. Estella rushed toward him, comforting him, speaking in Japanese, offering him a warm refreshment. I heard the word ocha. Tea.
“Okay, fine,” Ernie said. “So we know why Bok’s trying to pull this off. Take over the government and put the royal family back into power. But you can bet he’ll be the main man in charge. He’ll be the one pulling the strings in South Korea, no question.”
“Not only South Korea,” Estella said. “The entire country, even the Communists up north will rally under the Chosun banner. We’ll be united again.”
“Fat chance,” Ernie said.
Katie shoved her notebook and her pen in one of the pockets of her jungle fatigue jacket. She stepped toward Ernie and said, “Will you shut the hell up? Can’t you see you’re upsetting the crown prince?”
“Well, good,” Ernie said. “Right now, ROK Ar
my soldiers are shooting and killing other ROK Army soldiers.” Ernie pointed to the frail old man in the rocking chair. “He’s responsible for that. Comrade killing comrade. Brother killing brother.” He waggled his finger at Katie’s nose. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to do whatever I can to put a stop to it.”
“Bully for you,” Katie said.
Ernie turned to me. “Where’d Crabtree say he was going?”
“To Gukbang-bu,” I said. “The Ministry of National Defense.”
“We need to commandeer a vehicle. Get over there and tell him about all this Chosun Dynasty bullshit, let him know who’s behind all this mumbo jumbo.”
“It’s not mumbo jumbo,” Katie said. “It’s important to people.”
“Yeah,” Ernie said. “People stuck in the past.”
Being aware of who was behind the coup and what their motives were might not make much of a difference, but on the other hand, it could make all the difference. At least then the South Korean military could guess which other military leaders felt sympathy toward the cause and who might’ve already expressed an interest in a restored monarchy. With that knowledge, they’d be better able to anticipate the next blow from a turncoat. We’d stumbled into valuable intelligence, and it was our responsibility to make sure that it got into the right hands.
The tank fire was coming closer. Certainly, the Capital Guard knew by now that they were caught in a full-on battle. Making our way across the city would be dangerous. Still, it had to be done.
“All right,” I told Ernie. “Let’s do it.”
“I’m going with you,” Katie said.
“No you’re not,” Ernie said. “People are shooting out there.”
“I don’t care. I’m going. Try to stop me.”
Ernie looked at me for support.
“No, way,” I said. “This is our military duty, and we’re going to have to move fast. Write whatever story you want, publish whatever photographs you want. We might not even be around to see them.”
Ernie and I started toward the door. I hadn’t taken more than two steps when a deep commanding voice bellowed out “Chong-ji!” Halt!
