GI Confidential

by Martin Limon

  “Do you love her?” Katie asked.

  Crabtree paused. “I don’t know.”

  Katie jotted something down. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Go now,” General Crabtree said, shooing us away.

  Ernie and I didn’t need much coaxing. At any moment, that mob would overwhelm the Korean soldiers and break down the front door. They might be angry at the memory of Japanese occupation, but when you’re pissed off and trying to protect your country, any foreigner will do.

  Crabtree sprinted up the stairs.

  Ernie, Katie, Screech Owl, and I made our way out the back door of the building and hurried down an alleyway, heading south toward Yongsan Compound. On the way, radios were turned on, sitting on window sills and propped atop stools in doorways, volume full blast. For a while we heard General Bok talking, trying to convince people that restoration of the monarchy was the only way to reunite the country. Eventually, he changed to screaming at his ROK Army III Corps commanders, ordering them to reposition to the northern edge of the city to stop the advance of the ROK Army II Corps. Finally, we heard shouts and crashes and then screams. Men cursed in Korean, Bok screeched something, and a couple of gunshots rang out.

  A few seconds later, the broadcast went dead.

  -26-

  Just after dawn, the city was already filled with looters.

  The Korean National Police were nowhere to be seen, and the Army itself—no matter what corps you were from—had abandoned all discipline. Soldiers in fatigues carried gunny sacks full of oddly shaped items, or in some cases, boxes filled with stereo equipment or television sets, most of the electronics made in Japan.

  “They’re not taking the Korean-made stuff,” I told Katie.

  “Made in Japan is higher quality?”

  “That’s what they think.”

  She scribbled that down. When we finally reached Namdaemun, the Great Southern Gate, we knew we were close. Maybe a mile and a half. A straight shot down a tree-lined lane that ran through the residential area of Huam-dong. There were no kimchi cabs out now. And Ernie’s jeep, along with its custom-made tuck-and-roll, had been abandoned during the chaos of the attack on the Ministry of National Defense. Even the most intrepid taxi drivers were no longer trying to hustle; they were just concerned with protecting their property.

  Oddly, no one had menaced us in any way. Even groups of young local thugs, holding clubs and knives, ran right past us.

  “Looting fever,” Ernie said. “They can rob a miguk any time. But how often can you break into the Cosmos Department Store and get away with it?”

  “A red-letter day,” I agreed.

  Screech Owl ranged a few yards ahead of us, keeping a sharp eye out for danger. The alleyways that emerged onto the main road were narrow, and I kept wondering what Sarkosian might do if he managed—especially in this chaos—to get hold of a weapon. So Screech Owl wasn’t the only one keeping a wary eye out for the unexpected. Although how we’d protect ourselves now that we were no longer armed, I wasn’t quite sure.

  Finally, we reached the last intersection.

  The traffic light wasn’t working, but we looked both ways, and then the four of us darted across the road. From there, it was a long block past the entrance to the small US compound of Camp Coiner on the right and the ROK Marine headquarters compound on the left. At the end, at the top of a gradual rise, stood the back gate to the 8th United States Army’s Yongsan Compound. From here we could see helmeted MPs and the Korean contract-hire gate guards. And behind them an extra contingent of armed soldiers, armored troop transports blocking the way.

  “Safety,” Katie said.

  An eerie feeling ran up my spine. I glanced around as we hustled for the gate, but in the end, we made it. Safety on the US compound at last. We showed our IDs and were allowed in.

  So much for a premonition.

  It was still early morning when we returned to the CID office and discovered that Miss Kim wouldn’t be coming in. Eighth Army had announced that no local-hire employees should report to duty that day because of the rioting. Riley had switched from the khaki uniform he usually wore into fatigues, along with full combat regalia. He wore his steel helmet, even indoors, the leather strap securely buckled beneath his chin, web gear with ammo pouches stuffed with magazines, and his M16 rifle leaning against his desk within an arm’s reach.

  “What? No hand grenades?” Ernie asked.

  “Don’t be a wiseass, Bascom,” he replied. “Who knows what these Commies are up to?”

  “Commies? What Commies?”

  Ernie headed toward the serving counter, and when he realized that the metal coffee urn was empty, he shook it in disgust. “How can a guy be expected to fight World War III without coffee?” he asked.

  “There’s instant in the cupboard,” Riley growled.

  “How about hot water?”

  “You’ll have to heat it yourself.”

  Which Ernie did by filling a bronze pot Miss Kim usually used for tea and placing it atop an electric burner.

  Riley turned to me. “Where’s your report?”

  “You’re not going to ask if we were hurt or if we suffered any combat trauma? Nothing?”

  “Knock off the bullshit, Sueño. Colonel Brace wants that report, and he wants it now.”

  So after Ernie and I each had a cup of Folgers Instant Crystals, I sat down to type my report.

  Without asking permission, Katie Byrd picked up the phone to make a call and discovered that the 8th Army Public Affairs Office was about to organize a press briefing. She waved as she hurried out the door and spent the rest of the day at the meeting, being apprised on what the honchos knew—and were willing to publicly release—about General Bok’s coup.

  Ernie found the copy of the hot-off-the-press issue of the Overseas Observer that Riley had managed to finagle early that morning from the PX and thumbed through it contentedly. Until he came to page three. “You’re kidding me, right?” With the back of his hand, he slapped pulp.

  “What?” I said, looking up from my typewriter.

  “That broad Katie. What won’t she do next?”

  I rose from behind the field table and gazed over Ernie’s shoulder.

  “She’s not only got an article about Sarkosian being on the lam, but to counterbalance it, she’s got this sappy love story between General Crabtree and Estella. ‘The Lady on the Line,’ she’s calling her. Trapped on the DMZ just a few yards from North Korea, unable to reunite with the man she truly loves.”

  “No photo?”

  “She’s promising that next week.”

  “Well, she took plenty today.”

  “Yeah,” Ernie said, “Crabtree and Estella will be another Romeo and Juliet before she gets through with them.”

  “If they survived that mob at Korean Broadcasting,” I said.

  By mid-afternoon, word was that the tide had turned. The loyal troops of the II Corps were sweeping through the city now, mopping up the remnants of General Boks’ III Corps, most of whom were surrendering immediately. As far as the fate of General Bok, Crabtree and Estella, and Crown Prince Yi Il, we didn’t know yet. What we did know was that Park Chung-hee had issued the order for his soldiers to shoot looters.

  “On sight,” Riley said, feigning aiming his rifle. “The ROKs aren’t screwing around.”

  “They usually don’t,” Ernie said.

  The next day, as things were settling down in the city, Ernie convinced the head dispatcher at 21 T-Car to loan him a tow truck and a driver and he went to Gukbang-bu in an attempt to retrieve his jeep. When he returned to the office, he was downcast.

  “A total loss,” he said. “Crushed by a goddamn Third Corps tank.” He opened his palm. “This was all I could salvage.”

  The red devil face on the gearshift grinned up at me.

  Replacement vehicles
were at a premium at the motor pool now, so Ernie and I took a kimchi cab to downtown Seoul to the headquarters of the Korean National Police. We waited less than five minutes to be ushered into Mr. Kill’s office. He was distraught, sitting at the coffee table, for once lighting up and smoking in front of us.

  “A disgrace,” he said. “A national embarrassment.” He looked at us. “Why can’t we resolve our political differences without resorting to violence?”

  I spread my hands. “You’re not the only ones.”

  “No, we’re not.” He shook his head. “But we thought we were making such progress.”

  “You are,” I said. “It was put down within hours.”

  “If they hadn’t been so amateurish, they might’ve pulled it off. Imagine that. Accidentally broadcasting a conversation in Japanese. Had they really thought the Korean people had forgotten colonization?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “That wasn’t smart.”

  “No.” He stubbed out his cigarette.

  “Any word on what happened to General Bok?” I asked. “Or General Crabtree?”

  “Not yet. Second Corps fired on the building. Direct hit as far as we can tell, but it’s still a mess. Our people are sorting through it.”

  “They haven’t identified the bodies?” Ernie asked.

  “The morgue is jam-packed. It will take time.”

  We sat silent for a moment. Mr. Kill fiddled with his shirt pocket, visibly tempted to light up another tambei, but in the end, he resisted the urge.

  “Sarkosian,” he said.

  “Any leads?”

  “No. That’s the thing. You’d think that with us posting his photograph in every KNP office in the country and having patrol officers here in Seoul carry a copy of his picture in their pocket, we would’ve spotted him by now.”

  “Clever guy,” Ernie said.

  “Yes. And we can’t discount the possibility that during all this, he might’ve gotten ahold of a firearm.”

  My thoughts exactly. “So what do we do?” I asked.

  “My men are still dealing with the arrested looters and the bodies caught in the crossfire. As soon as that dies down, maybe in a couple of days, I’ll send out the bulletin and photograph again, emphasizing how important it is to find him. He and his gang are responsible for the deaths of at least five Koreans, maybe more. Some of the victims in the last robbery are still in the hospital, and in this confusion, I haven’t received updates.”

  “You’d think a burly foreigner like him would stand out pretty easily,” Ernie said.

  “You’d think. But Seoul is becoming more cosmopolitan. And if he’s spending money freely, people have a tendency not to, how do you say it?”

  “Kill the golden goose,” I said.

  “Yes. He’s sitting on at least two thousand dollars.”

  “That will buy a lot of silence,” Ernie said.

  “But not enough,” Kill said. “We’ll get him.”

  Ernie and I were both thinking the same thing: if he doesn’t get us first.

  Since we were downtown, we decided to check in with Katie at the Bando. I used the house phone in the lobby to dial her room. It rang about six times before she picked up.

  “What?” she said.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “Me who?”

  “Sueño,” I replied.

  “Why the hell are you calling me so early?”

  “It’s almost noon.”

  “For you, maybe. For me, it’s four in the morning.”

  “Late night?”

  “Filing stories like crazy, mailing rolls of film. This story is spreading beyond just our little Overseas Observer.”

  “Which story?”

  “The one everybody wants to read about. The one with the princess and the love-struck general. Roll over Willy Shakespeare. Katie Byrd Worthington is on the way.”

  “Have you talked to them?”

  “Since we last saw them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No. Have you?”

  “No,” I replied.

  She was silent for a moment. “So you think maybe they didn’t make it?”

  “I think maybe not.” I wondered how much to tell her, but then I figured, what the hell. “According to Mr. Kill, the Korean Broadcasting building was shelled by the ROK Army Second Corps artillery.”

  “Ugh,” she grunted. “Much left?”

  “Not much.”

  “Christ,” she said. “Guess they really were star-crossed lovers.”

  It had been obvious General Crabtree had a soft spot for Estella, but I’d never seen that feeling reciprocated. “Were they really lovers?” I asked.

  “Who the hell cares? If I say they were lovers, then they were lovers.”

  The truth, I thought, might be buried for good under rubble.

  “You haven’t heard from Sarkosian, have you?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Maybe we could find you a room on the compound,” I said. “It might be safer there.”

  “And let Eighth Army lock me up if and when they feel like it? No way, José.”

  “He’s out there somewhere, Katie,” I told her. “And in all this chaos, he might’ve gotten ahold of a gun.”

  “Hey, a person can get killed crossing the street.” I heard her reach for something on her nightstand and then set it down with a metallic thud. “And a person can die from lack of sleep. Will you quit worrying, Sueño?”

  “Not in my nature,” I replied.

  “Talk to Ernie. He’ll explain how.”

  With that, she hung up.

  -27-

  The rest of the week went by quietly—the Korean government methodically putting itself back together—and then the biggest event of our lives took place on Sunday when the new issue of the Overseas Observer hit the stands.

  Ernie and I sat in the 8th Army Snack Bar, going over the paper with Strange.

  “Too bad about Crabtree,” Strange said. “He was a bold dude.”

  The big headline in this week’s issue was about Lieutenant General Abner Jennings Crabtree and Major General Bok Jung-nam, as well as the woman known only as Estella and the self-proclaimed Crown Prince Yi Il. All of their bodies had been found amidst the rubble of the Korean Broadcasting building. Katie played it up big. How the two lovers had been separated by international politics and had almost restored the rightful monarchy of the Chosun Dynasty when the violent put-down of the attempted coup cost them their lives. Katie knew full well that Estella and Crabtree had been at cross purposes, with her aiming to overthrow the current government and him wanting to stop her. But Katie wasn’t about to let minor details get in the way of a good story.

  To make sure the GIs read it, Katie managed to have the story wrapped around a particularly busty pinup girl.

  “Oh, brother,” Ernie said. “Old Katie Byrd really laid it on thick, didn’t she?”

  “She’s not so old,” Strange said.

  Ernie looked at him. “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen her,” he replied. “She’s good-looking. Once you get past the blue jeans and the jungle jacket, I’ll bet she has a nice body.”

  “One you’ll never see.”

  “Neither will you,” Strange said, “if the head shed gets its way.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I mean they’re trying to figure out who to blame for this coup.”

  “Who to blame?” Ernie said. “They already know who to blame. General Bok and Estella and that old guy who claimed to be the prince. They’re who to blame. And they’re all dead.”

  “Not that simple,” Strange said, sipping contentedly on his hot chocolate, enjoying the fact that he’d gotten a rise out of Ernie. “The Park Chung-hee government is going over Third Corps with a fine-too
thed comb, looking for traitors. And finding plenty. There’ll be trials, maybe executions.”

  “So? What’s that got to do with us?”

  “Eighth Army is wondering who put them up to this. Who coordinated between ROK Army Third Corps and the US First Corps to open an easy pathway between the DMZ and Seoul.”

  “An easy pathway?” Ernie asked. “General Crabtree did everything he could to place himself between Bok and Seoul. He just didn’t have enough troops or enough warning. Ask Screech Owl.”

  “Oh, yes. And the good Sergeant Major. He’s being interrogated under oath as to his part in all this.”

  “He did his best to stop the coup and his best to protect General Crabtree.”

  “Crabtree’s dead.”

  “Yeah. But before he died, he ordered Screech Owl to return with us to Yongsan Compound.”

  Strange spread his hands as if in surrender. “There you go.”

  “What?” Ernie asked. “What do you mean, ‘There you go’?”

  “It’s not what I mean. It’s what the honchos mean. They’re wondering why you two and Screech Owl abandoned General Crabtree.”

  “He wanted it that way. Besides, what were we going to do? Stop Second Corps artillery from blowing up the building?”

  “You could’ve done something.”

  Ernie leaned back in his chair, exasperated. “No matter what you do in this army,” he said, “you’re always wrong.”

  Instead of medals, I thought, they only gave us grief.

  The next morning at the CID office, Staff Sergeant Riley got busy chewing us out for the black market statistics going to hell while we’d been worrying about ROK Army III Corps and the bank robberies. “You two get your butts over to the Commissary and PX,” he told us, “right now. And start making some arrests. At least four today. Minimum. And four every day for the rest of the week.”

  “Take a hike,” Ernie told him.

  The phone rang. Miss Kim picked it up, identified herself, and listened. Then, with her slender hand, she covered the receiver. With a worried look, she turned to me. “Geogie,” she said.