by Martin Limon
“A Korean man or American man?”
“Korean.”
“He was in Myong-dong?”
“I think maybe but I don’t know.”
Ernie glanced at me. I said, “Did either one of the women talk to you directly?”
“American woman, she do. She very nice.”
“What’d she say?”
Young Kim shrugged again. “Say, ‘Thank you.’”
“How about the Korean woman? Did she speak to you?”
“No, I’m too low. She won’t talk to me.”
It saddened me that this man considered himself beneath one of his customers. After a lifetime of doubtlessly being bullied by others for his half-black background and taunted for his father having abandoned him, it was no surprise that his self-esteem had taken a hell of a beating.
Ernie filled the silence. “Sounds like she’s one specific kind of bitch.”
Surprised, Young Kim turned to Ernie. Then he grinned. So did Ernie. And then they were both laughing. So was I. Even Manager Rhee joined in.
It was a short walk from the PX taxi dispatch office to the 21 T-Car motor pool. Ernie went into huddled conversation with the Korean civilian dispatcher, and they finally nodded to one another and shook hands. Outside, Ernie said, “You got any booze left on your monthly ration?”
“Sure,” I said. “All four bottles.”
“The greedy son-of-a-gun wants two bottles for the tires and another two to have the backseat taken off post to the upholstery shop. He’ll have the pissed-on stuff ripped out and replaced with new tuck-and-roll.”
“Black again?”
“Nah, I ordered red.”
“Red?” I asked. “Won’t that attract too much attention?”
“Actually it’s burgundy. Very classy.”
The tires should’ve been free. All parts and equipment on a military jeep were Army issue. But going through normal channels would’ve taken days, if not weeks, for new tires. The lubricant of PX-purchased liquor made everything happen fast. And we were asked to pay in scotch instead of cash because every bottle we purchased for ten bucks in the Class VI store could be sold by the 21 T-Car dispatcher off post for two or three times that amount in won.
The jeep was already washed and waiting for us, and except for the missing backseat, in tip-top condition. We climbed in, Ernie turned the ignition, and the engine roared to life. As we left the motor pool, he stepped on the accelerator and the back tires squealed, laying rubber on about twenty yards of cement.
-11-
Back at the CID office, Riley tossed a three-page printout at me.
“Fusterman’s ration control record,” he said. “You owe me.”
I picked up the printout and found a spot to sit and study it. Ernie proceeded to the back counter and pulled himself a mugful of over-roasted coffee. He loaded it with sugar in an attempt to conceal its bitter taste. He took a few sips, grimaced, and poured a couple more packets in.
Fusterman’s record looked pretty routine. A single GI is allowed to spend ninety dollars a month, combined, in the PX and commissary. Every purchase over two dollars is anviled on an IBM card and dropped into a padlocked box that’s delivered weekly to the 8th Army Data Processing Center. If a GI goes over his ration, or if he purchases too many controlled items, a report is sent to his unit of assignment. Once the unit commander receives the report of the overpurchase, he has the option to bring the soldier up on charges. Typically, non-judicial punishment is used—dubbed an “Article 15” since the transgression fell under that section of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. But if the black marketing was egregious enough, a soldier could be court-martialed and fined, or imprisoned, or both. Cases this serious usually resulted in a Bad Conduct Discharge after jail time was served.
But Fusterman hadn’t come close to anything like that. He’d merely spent up to his ration, usually to within a dollar or two, every month. A common enough occurrence—and one that indicated a single GI, whose meals and uniforms were provided to him for free, was black marketeering to make an extra buck. Fusterman, however, had apparently tapped out his monthly ration limit not to resell the items, but to turn them over to the Noh family.
“What’d you get?” Ernie asked me.
“Fusterman was maxing out his ration every month, but not going over.”
“Anything high-value?”
“None, according to this.”
Ernie shrugged. “Dead end.”
“Looks like it,” I said. “We can rule out Corporal Noh being killed over some big-money black-market dispute.”
“Drugs, then,” Ernie said. “We should check Fusterman’s medical record. And Noh’s.”
That was the logical next step. But from everything I’d learned about Private Theodore “Teddy” Fusterman and Corporal Noh Jong-bei, neither of them had been a druggie.
“There’s something else,” I said.
“What?”
“Both of these guys are too clean. Everybody praises them.”
“Right. Until they found blood on Fusterman’s entrenching tool.”
“Yeah,” I said. “If the tool is his.”
“Tough to prove. The Army issues tens of thousands of entrenching tools, and as far as I’ve seen, they all look alike.”
And then it hit me where we might find another lead. “Noh and Fusterman went to Seoul a lot.”
“Yeah, since Noh’s family lived there and Fusterman was dating his sister.”
“A lot of GIs stationed along the DMZ never make it to Seoul. Not in an entire tour.”
“Why bother?” Ernie said, playing along with my reasoning. “You have all the reefer and booze and dollies you want just south across the Imjin River, in Paju-ri.”
Paju-ri. One of the many villages in South Korea that had come to thrive by catering to the whims of young American GIs.
“You ever been there?” I asked.
“Too far north,” Ernie replied. “Haven’t bothered.”
“Maybe we should bother now.”
“Why? You not getting enough?”
I ignored him. “The other guys at the JSA—the ones patrolling the grounds, staring down those North Korean guards. I want to hear what they have to say about this mess. We’re barred from entering the JSA, but no one said anything about Paju-ri.”
“Do you think they sell soju there?” Ernie asked.
“They sell everything there,” I replied. “Dried cuttlefish and hot pepper paste and rice liquor.”
“All the necessities of life,” Ernie said, standing up. “We ain’t there yet?”
The lead on Myong-dong in Evelyn Cresthill’s missing person’s case would have to wait until the evening. No sense going out there in the afternoon, alerting people to our interest. Better to wait until nighttime, when things were busy and anyone who might’ve met with Evelyn and her Korean escort would be awake, alert, and ready to earn a buck. So we could head to Paju-ri first and be back in plenty of time. GI nightlife started early, right after evening chow. But the high-class nightlife in Myong-dong was more Continental. Only the hoi-polloi would be seen there prior to eight p.m.
We were about to walk out the door when Sergeant Riley stepped in front of us, his mouth twisted as he jabbed his thumb in the direction of the hallway toward the office of the Provost Marshal.
“Colonel Brace wants to talk to you.”
“Tell him we’re otherwise indisposed,” Ernie said.
“Now,” Riley replied.
We would’ve had to tromp over a determined Riley to escape. Ernie was about to, but I stopped him. “Might as well get it over with,” I said.
Ernie shrugged.
We marched down to the Provost Marshal’s office.
Riley went in first to announce us, and after he motioned us in, Ernie and I came to attention
in front of the Colonel’s desk and saluted. Still seated, Colonel Brace waved a half-hearted salute in reply. He didn’t tell us to sit.
“I talked to the MAC Commander,” he said. “No more JSA. You’re officially off the case.” Then he slid the paperwork across an expanse of mahogany. “Sign,” he said.
I read the statement. It was dated and issued by 8th Army headquarters, directing us to cease and desist from any further investigation into the murder of Corporal Noh Jong-bei and specifically denying us access to the Joint Security Area or its environs. We’d seen this coming, and I saw no point in arguing. I stepped forward and signed the document.
Ernie said, “Who’s taking over the case, sir?”
Bored, Colonel Brace answered, “You know the answer to that, Bascom.”
“The JAG Office?”
Colonel Brace nodded.
“They won’t do any investigating, sir, and you know it. They’ll just go with whatever’s shoved in front of them. Like Private Fusterman’s supposed guilt.”
This seemed to wake the Colonel. He sat up straight in his chair. “You two are the ones who first pointed the finger at Fusterman.”
“Pointing the finger at him just meant it merited a closer look. It doesn’t mean he’s guilty.”
“I don’t know what army you’re in, Bascom. You’re sure as hell not in the same army I’m in. In my army, a soldier follows orders. And a soldier does not constantly question the motives of his superior officers.”
“Their motive, sir, is to keep everything quiet up at the JSA. Even if Fusterman isn’t guilty.”
Colonel Brace stood up. “That’ll be just about enough out of you.” He stuck his finger about a foot from Ernie’s nose. “You will not investigate this matter further. Is that clear?”
Ernie didn’t answer.
“Is that clear?”
Finally, Ernie relented. Even he knew that the hammer of the US Army smashed whatever it hit completely and flatly. He’d seen the splatter often enough.
“Yes, sir,” Ernie replied sullenly. “It’s clear.” He stepped forward and signed.
“All right then,” Colonel Brace said, sitting back down. He made a show of fiddling with his pipe. Then he turned to me. “What progress have you made on locating Evelyn Cresthill?”
“We have a lead, sir, in Myong-dong.”
“Myong-dong? She went out there?”
“Yes, sir. We believe so.”
He tapped the loose contents of the bowl of his pipe into a crystal ashtray. “Myong-dong,” he mused. “All by herself.” He shook his head. “Brave woman.”
We didn’t bother correcting his assumption.
“What’s your next step?” he asked.
“To go out there,” I said. “Ask some questions.”
“Who’s your translator?”
“Me,” I replied.
“Oh, that’s right. You took night classes, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Brace stared at me curiously. “How many units did you earn?” he asked.
“All they had, sir. Eighteen semester units.”
“That’s a lot of work,” he said, impressed. When I didn’t answer, he continued. “After you leave Korea, what good will it do you? It’s not like Korean’s an international language. Not like French or German.”
I wasn’t exactly sure German was considered an international language, but I’d seen Colonel Brace in lederhosen at the annual Oktoberfest on South Post, so I didn’t argue with him. I figured his questions were rhetorical, but he surprised me by waiting for an answer. How could I explain to him how deeply complex I found Korean culture? How much more I’d gained from my classes than the language? A different way of thinking, one that was almost the exact inverse of the American ideal of personal freedom. Even Korean sentence structure reinforced this—I remember being shocked to first learn that the verb was placed at the end of a sentence, demoting action to an afterthought. And that the subject—the “I”—didn’t have to come first. The object could come first, as in the object of our attention, our desires. These thoughts weren’t common, I knew. I’d never encountered them in any treatise on East Asian culture. But I wrestled with them pretty much constantly, trying to tease out the true nature of Korean philosophy. I knew that sometimes—probably more often than not—they thought of Americans as mad. Not just because of our crude behaviors, but because from their point of view, what we cherished seemed almost criminal. Worshipping the self instead of the whole.
Ernie was staring at me. I coughed. “Yes, sir,” I said, “I suppose it won’t do me much good when I’m back in the States.”
“Yes, well, I suppose it’ll still come in handy in Myong-dong.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
He pulled some paperwork closer and shifted his attention to it. Behind us, Riley opened the door. Realizing we’d been dismissed, Ernie and I saluted, turned, and marched out of the office.
“Okay,” Ernie said once we were back in the jeep. “We go to the barracks, change into our running-the-ville outfits, grab some chow, and head up to Paju-ri.”
When I didn’t reply, he looked at me. “Isn’t that the plan?”
“Yeah. It is.”
“So what are you moping about?”
“Something you said in there.”
“What’d I say?”
“About the motive of JAG. To pin this all on PFC Fusterman in order to calm things down at the JSA.”
“Yeah. The North Koreans are off the hook if Fusterman gets convicted. Nobody can blame them for the murder. You think I’m wrong about that?”
“No,” I said. “You’re right. That’s JAG’s motive.”
“Then what?”
“I’m thinking about Colonel Peele up at the MAC.”
“No wonder you’re so bummed. Want a tranquilizer?”
“No. Remember what he was mad about?”
“The whole world?”
“He was angry because he wanted to make sure Corporal Noh’s murder was pinned on the North Koreans. He seemed sure that the Commies had done it. And now he’s signed an order to keep us away from the JSA.”
“Yeah,” Ernie said. “He’s siding with JAG, who wants to make sure the North Koreans aren’t accused of the murder.”
I turned to Ernie. “So why did he do that?”
Ernie shrugged. “Like Colonel Brace said, we’re the ones who pointed the finger at Fusterman.”
“Exactly. In Colonel Peele’s mind, we’re the ones who let the North Koreans off the hook.”
“So he doesn’t want us messing up anything else in the future.” Ernie paused. “Maybe this Neutral Nations Committee, or whatever you call it . . .”
“The Neutral Nations Supervisory Committee.”
“Yeah. Them. Maybe Colonel Peele will try to go through them to throw suspicion back onto the North Koreans.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But good luck with that. The mission of the Neutral Nations boys is to keep peace along the DMZ. I doubt they’d ever find enough evidence to heighten tensions by making that kind of accusation.”
“So Peele is on his own,” Ernie said.
“He thinks he is.”
Ernie studied me. “He’s such an asshole he doesn’t realize that you and me are his best bet at getting at the truth.”
“Right. He just thinks we’re a couple of screwups.” I paused, getting to the heart of it. “In fact, I bet he thinks we’re worse than that. He probably sees us as his enemies.”
“He can’t blame JAG,” Ernie said. “So he’s putting everything that’s gone wrong on us.”
“We’re his targets.”
“Right. The paperwork he threw at us was personal.”
“Easier than going up against a bunch of freaking lawyers.”
Ernie’s eyes lit up. “The jeep.”
I nodded.
“He’s the son of a bitch who trashed my tuck-and-roll.”
“He’s got it in for us,” I said. “Maybe he was working long hours and came into the O’Club for a late dinner. He’s sitting there and sees us parade into the back office with Manager Cho.”
“So outside he pulls the switchblade he always carries and slashes some very expensive tuck-and-roll, then takes a leak on my backseat. But what about the booby trap?”
“He might’ve set that up ahead of time. Or planted it a while ago, in case someone pissed him off.”
“You think so? Must be some kind of a serious nut.”
“Yeah, that’s what we need to find out.”
“How?”
“Well, I have an idea.”
“Don’t you always.”
We decided not to check with 8th Army Billeting to locate Colonel Peele’s BOQ because we didn’t need anyone to know we were stalking him. Instead, we drove over to Yongsan Compound South Post, where the senior Bachelor Officer Quarters were clustered in about a two- or three-block area. Each building was a small brick home with a whitewashed sign out front giving the full name of the officer inside and his unit of assignment. Most were shared, two colonels per house.
“Snazzy,” Ernie said. “Beats the hell out of the barracks.”
“Earn a college degree,” I told him. “Then go to Officer Candidate School. In twenty years, you can be here too.”
“I’ll settle for a hooch in the ville.”
At a quiet cul-de-sac, we found it: peele, norbert m., colonel, executive officer, military armistice commission. Next to his name was that of another officer, his roommate.
“Norbert?” Ernie said.
“Well, someone’s got to be named Norbert.”
Ernie completed his U-turn, and we meandered through the neighborhood before parking on the street behind Colonel Peele’s quarters. Most high-ranking officers worked during the day, with shift work reserved for officers lower on the totem pole. So the neighborhood was quiet, except for the Korean maids, mostly middle-aged women who worked cleaning house, doing laundry, and often preparing an evening meal before departing around midafternoon.
