AHMM, September 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Vern was about to lower his trousers. Then, resolutely, he pulled them back up.

  “I'm awake now,” he said. “I'll just take a walk outside. See how things are going.”

  Un-hui groaned and rolled over. She'd known Vern long enough—she'd been his yobo, his live-in girlfriend, on three different tours—to know that once he made up his mind to do something there was no power on earth that could dissuade him. Let him walk around the quiet village, she thought, if that's what he wanted to do. He could watch the active duty soldiers file through the main gate, reporting to their firing batteries. In a few minutes, after Vern became cold and hungry, he'd be back.

  Vern slipped on his socks and finished dressing. Then he slid back the oil-paper-covered door and stepped into the cold cement-floored kitchen. From a low wooden rack, he grabbed his shoes and opened the outer door.

  “I'll be back,” he said as he slipped on his shoes and walked into the cold night.

  Un-hui groaned and pulled the silk comforter over her head.

  * * * *

  Every door and window in the village of Sonyu-ri was locked and shuttered tight. The South Korean government had imposed a midnight-to-four curfew on the entire country for over twenty years, ever since the end of the Korean War. Up here, just two miles south of the Imjin River and six miles south of the Demilitarized Zone, the curfew was enforced with manic resolve. But the curfew was over now. Vern glanced at his watch: zero four thirty-one hours.

  Shortly after curfew, the DivArty headquarters had called the alert. SOP. Standard operating procedure. But what they hadn't done is fire off the 50 mm alert cannon, which is usually done shortly after or just before the alert siren is sounded. Either the small howitzer was out of order or the staff duty NCO had been unable to locate the blank ammunition.

  Vern wound through the dark, narrow pedestrian lanes. Brick and mortared rock leaned out of the shadows as if to envelop him. Wastewater gurgled through a gutter in the middle of the walkway, reeking of ammonia and filth. Earthenware kimchi pots lined rooftops and walls. The entire village smelled like the dust-filled interior of a garlic warehouse, although Vern's sense of smell had long since been desensitized to the omnipresent background odor. He emerged on the blacktopped expanse of the Main Supply Route, or MSR, the central road that sliced through the heart of the village of Sonyu-ri.

  One soldier sprinted down the road, heading for the brightly lit chain-link fence that was the main gate of Camp Pelham. A straggler. Every soldier would be accounted for, Vern knew that. As soon as the last man had reported in for duty, Battalion Ops would be notified and the time recorded. That late young soldier could expect to have his butt reamed by any good first sergeant. Vern had reamed a few in his day. More than a few.

  Vern waited in the shadows about fifty yards in front of the gate. No other G.I.'s appeared. They were all on compound now. The main drag of Sonyu-ri was quiet and dark. Unlit neon signs lined the road with names like the Kit Kat Club, the Silver Dragon Bar, Moon's Tailoring, Katy Kim's Brassware Emporium, and Oh's Sporting Goods. At dawn, Vern knew, old women would be outside with short-handled brooms cleaning up in front of their shops. Later, middle-aged men, some of them still in pajamas and slippers, would unlock and roll up the metal shutters protecting the front windows of the shops. The compound, meanwhile, would come to life with a bugle sounding reveille and the flags of the United Nations Command, the Republic of Korea, and the United States of America would be raised to signal the start of the duty day. Diesel truck engines would be fired up, filling the air around them with pungent clouds of burnt fuel. Soldiers would march four abreast to and from unit work—formations. Those soldiers wouldn't emerge onto the main drag of Sonyu-ri until about noontime when some of the men would return to their yobo's hooch and others would eschew the free army chow and order a bowl of hot noodles or a plate of ohmu rice in one of the eateries along the strip. Night is when Sonyu-ri really came alive. The neon blinked awake and dozens of scantily clad young Korean women appeared in the bars and clubs and teahouses as if by magic. The off-duty G.I.'s changed into blue jeans and sports shirts and nylon jackets with fire-breathing dragons embroidered on the back. Then, chomping gum, they would erupt out of the gate of Camp Pelham in packs of three or four, overnight passes shoved securely in their wallets, a packet of Military Payment Certificates bulging their pockets.

  Vern loved the army and wished he hadn't retired, but after thirty years, he'd been forced to. Too old to make the grade. Or at least that's what they'd told him. Regulations are regulations. After thirty years, you're history.

  Vern had watched Sonyu-ri prosper since the end of the Korean War. Back then, people were starving. Heating fuel, soap, canned food, antibiotics, these things were literally worth their weight in gold. Now, people were healthy and well fed. Instead of supplies pilfered from the compound, they wanted money. Military Payment Certificates (MPC), or greenbacks, if they were available. That's why Sonyu-ri existed, this little village amidst acres of frozen cabbage fields and rice paddies. It existed to mine the G.I. compound, to extract as much wealth from Camp Pelham as possible. And that's why Vern loved it and loved living here and why he'd chosen to retire here. With any luck he'd be buried in a grave mound two klicks to the north on a hill overlooking the Imjin River, flowing down from the dark heart of Communist North Korea.

  The compound was quiet now. Vern wandered down the MSR, his hands stuck deep into the pockets of his overcoat, until he reached the big whitewashed arch over the main gate of Camp Pelham. The well-lit arch said: second infantry division, second to none. Vern remembered when the First Cav had been in charge of this compound, and before that the U.S. Marine Corps. But they'd all moved out, years ago, to Vietnam.

  Vern stood quietly, waiting. And then he heard it. A low rumble. Diesel engines, dozens of them. Big deuce-and-a-half trucks, each hauling a half ton of high explosive artillery rounds and towing a 105 mm howitzer. The M.P.'s scurried to roll back the gate and then the convoy erupted out of the compound, G.I.'s in the front driving, G.I.'s up on top of the cab with M-60 machine guns pointed straight ahead, G.I.'s in back under canvas squatting on ammo crates, M-16 rifles pointing toward the sky.

  As truck after truck and artillery piece after artillery piece rolled by, Vern felt proud. These boys had leapt out of bed and put on their gear and were now rolling out with enough high-explosive firepower to destroy a small city—all in less than half an hour since the first alert siren had sounded. Good work.

  Without thinking about it, Vern clicked his heels together, assumed the position of attention, and saluted.

  The last truck in the convoy was the mess truck. After it chugged out of the compound and turned left down the MSR, the M.P.'s closed and locked the gate. Sonyu-ri was quiet again. Not a single Korean citizen had roused themselves from bed to cheer on the American G.I.'s who were rolling out right now toward the DMZ to prepare to repel an attack from the North Korean Communists. An imaginary attack to be sure, conjured up to provide realistic training, but still, these young soldiers were ready to fight and die, at any time, to protect freedom.

  At least that's the way Vern saw it. Others were more cynical about the far-flung American empire, but Vern saw it as a simple proposition: Communism versus freedom. The bad guys versus the good guys. He pondered these thoughts as he strolled back toward his hooch. The cold morning air bit firmly into his nostrils and he knew he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep now. Un-hui, begrudgingly, would fix a pot of coffee. He'd wait until the Armed Forces Korean Network came on at six a.m. and watch the morning news. Later, he'd walk to the PX and buy a copy of the Pacific Stars & Stripes, flown in every day from Tokyo. This is how his life had devolved: Instead of commanding men in the field, Vern plotted strategies to tick off the slow minutes of every slow day.

  Retirement, bah! Vern decided to take a different route home. At least he could have that much adventure.

  At the Seven Star Tea House, Vern turned left and followed stone ste
ps to the edge of the river, the Sonyu-gang, a tributary of the Imjin. It was quiet along here. Water gurgled off to his left, the dark splintered wood of walled homes lined the high bank off to his right. Patches of reeds stuck out of the river. Occasionally, a fin splashed amidst listless ripples. Later, when the sun started to peek over the eastern horizon, Korean men older than Vern would cast lines into this stream and occasionally catch small fish.

  That's when Vern saw it, up ahead, looking like a clump of rags.

  Vern hurried forward. It was more than rags. It was clothing, jumbled up. A hand sticking out. Nearby, a baseball cap, seated firmly atop a skull. Something viscous oozed from beneath the head. Vern had seen it often enough to know what it was.

  Blood.

  Vern stopped for a moment, examining his surroundings, checking for booby traps. When he saw none he inched forward. And then, as he stepped around the pile, a face. White skin, a long nose, eyes staring up toward nothing. Whoever he was, he wore dirty blue jeans and sneakers, and the body was twisted far enough to its right that Vern could make out a map of Korea embroidered onto the back of a nylon jacket. A G.I. A young American G.I. A dead G.I.

  In horror, Vern backed up.

  Then he turned, and then he was running.

  * * * *

  Lieutenant Noh Hyong-mok was not glad to see Vern Kruckman.

  Americans were always trouble, night or day, and at this hour of the morning whatever this sweaty-faced American was here for couldn't be good. Lieutenant Noh did not stand. He remained sitting behind the counter in front of the entranceway to the Sonyu-ri Police Station. He did manage, however, a nod toward the entering American. If his graying temples were any indication, the man was older than Lieutenant Noh and deserved some respect. He wasn't boyish and rude like most of the American G.I.'s Lieutenant Noh was forced to encounter. At least not so far. The American waited patiently for Lieutenant Noh to finish shuffling through the paperwork in front of him until he set it aside and finally stared up at the man. His splotchy white face and his long nose were flushed red. He must have been running. Lieutenant Noh waited for him to say something.

  “You speaky English?” Vern said.

  Lieutenant Noh continued to stare at him. Now he remembered him. This was the live-in boyfriend of the woman called Pei Un-hui who rented from the Lee family. It was said that he had put down a million won—over two thousand dollars U.S.—in key money. A record, as far as Lieutenant Noh knew, in the village of Sonyu-ri. Lieutenant Noh stared with new respect at the disheveled American. Still, he waited.

  “There's a body,” the American said, pointing. “Down by the river. He's not moving.” The American looked away, confused suddenly. “Blood everywhere. Maybe I should've given him first-aid. I should've checked his breathing.” The American glanced back up at Lieutenant Noh. “But he looked dead. That's why I didn't do anything.”

  Clearly, Noh thought, this American had seen something. Something that had upset him deeply. He sighed. In little more than an hour, the day-shift officer would report in and then he'd be off duty and wouldn't have to think of these foreigners at all. Instead, this big-nosed man barges into his quiet station just before dawn. Hadn't the American convoy just moved out? Shouldn't these rude foreigners be leaving him alone?

  None of these thoughts showed on Lieutenant Noh's face. He knew they didn't. He'd spent a lifetime making sure that no one, especially his superior, Captain Pak, ever knew what he was thinking. Even his own wife didn't know what he was thinking. Lieutenant Noh liked it that way. It made him feel that in this busy world, with people constantly making demands on one another, he had a quiet space; a space for his own thoughts.

  What he thought now was that this American might be drunk. Quickly, he decided against that. There was no reek of alcohol on him and the flush on his face was more likely from the cold and recent exertion. Whatever this man had seen, Lieutenant Noh knew that he had to investigate. Reluctantly, he called toward the back room.

  "Na pakkei nagga!" I'm going out.

  Two uniformed policemen, just out of the academy, rushed out of the back room, both of them bowing. One of them handed Lieutenant Noh his cap, the other helped him on with his jacket.

  Thus attired, Lieutenant Noh turned to the American and with an open-palmed gesture said, in perfectly pronounced English, “After you.”

  The two men marched out into the night.

  * * * *

  Vern searched the length of the walkway, pacing rapidly back and forth. At the same spot, every time he passed it, he pointed at the ground and said. “He was right here. I saw him.”

  Lieutenant Noh searched the area with his flashlight. There was nothing, not even any moisture that would indicate blood, although the soil was porous and damp and would have absorbed telltale signs quickly.

  “He was right here, I tell you,” Vern said.

  Lieutenant Noh shrugged. “Maybe he got up and left.”

  “He couldn't have,” Vern replied. “I saw the side of his head. It was bloody, practically caved in.”

  Lieutenant Noh stepped forward, knelt, and examined the spot more closely. There was something here. A swirllike pattern, as if someone had taken a rag and cleaned up. But why clean by the side of a filthy pathway? And why right here? Lieutenant Noh continued to examine the area, not saying anything to the American. In the mud at the edge of the pathway, he spotted a footprint. A nondescript shoe, probably a man's, not too large, not too small, about average size for an adult. But that wasn't unusual. This was a well-trod footpath along the river, a shortcut that many residents of Sonyu-ri used, especially useful to bypass the frenzy of foreigners and prostitutes on the main road after nightfall. Just a footprint. Nothing to make a fuss about.

  That's when Lieutenant Noh spotted it. A metal ring attached to a small clump of rough material. It shined as if it hadn't been weathering for long on this cold riverbank. Keeping his back to the American, Lieutenant Noh knelt and shoved the metal ring into his pocket. He'd examine it later, when he was alone. Lieutenant Noh climbed back up on the pathway. The American had stopped pacing and stared at him. Lieutenant Noh stared back.

  “What do you think?” Vern asked.

  Lieutenant Noh didn't answer.

  “He was here, I tell you,” Vern said. “I saw him with my own eyes.”

  Lieutenant Noh smiled at Vern. “Of course,” he said. “Would you like to make a report?”

  Vern looked away. He knew that his wife, Un-hui, would go bonkers if he made a formal police report. Unless it was absolutely necessary, involving the Korean National Police is something Koreans are trained from birth not to do. It's expensive and often the trouble can rebound on the innocent person who filed the complaint in the first place.

  “Not now,” Vern said. “Let me think about it.”

  Lieutenant Noh nodded and returned to the station

  * * * *

  “Where have you been?” Un-hui said, sitting up from her sleeping mat.

  “I've been out,” Vern replied, slipping his shoes off and placing them in the rack.

  “I know that, but you've been gone for more than an hour.” Un-hui's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “I saw something,” Vern said.

  “What?”

  “A G.I. Hurt. By the side of the pathway along the river.”

  “Did you help him?”

  “It was too late for that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he was dead.”

  Un-hui barked a laughed. “You need new glasses,” she said.

  Then she lay back down on her sleeping mat, rolled over and, once again, pulled the silk comforter up over her head.

  * * * *

  Vern sat at an iron table in front of the PX snack stand on Camp Pelham sipping a cup of coffee. The only G.I.'s on compound were the skeleton crew manning the battalion headquarters and the orderly rooms of each of the three firing batteries. The rest of the 2nd of the 17th Field Artillery Battalion was s
till in the field, still fighting an imaginary war with an imaginary Communist invasion force from North Korea.

  Vern decided that he had to do something. He tossed his paper cup in the trash and ambled toward the Battalion Headquarters.

  It was a long series of single-story Quonset huts, all painted green, and hooked together with wooden connecting hallways. A well-maintained jeep sat out front. Virtually all the other vehicles on compound had moved out on alert, but this jeep sat in the spot reserved to the staff duty officer. The tires were muddy. Old habits die hard. Vern leaned inside the open jeep and checked the gas gauge. Only three quarters full, not topped off as required by regulation. If Vern was still first sergeant, someone would have their butt chewed for leaving their equipment like that.

  At the main entranceway, a fat badger yanked the lanyard of an exploding canyon, grinning while he did so. Bad Ass the Badger, the battalion mascot, was painted on the side of the door. Vern shoved past the gaudy mural and marched down a long hallway covered with cheap tile. At the end of the hallway he pushed through double swinging doors stenciled in black with the words BATTALION OPERATIONS CENTER.

  A man Vern knew sat behind a gray Army-issue desk with a phone shoved tightly against his ear.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “Understand, sir. Will do, sir.” Finally, after a few more affirmative comments, the man hung up and gazed at Vern.

  “You ain't left yet?” the man said. “Why the hell are you still in Korea?”