by Martin Limon
The instructions of the gampei had been clear and simple. Make sure that Fusterman was convicted for Noh’s murder in the court-martial and sent away for who knew how many years to rot in the Federal Penitentiary at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. I was trading his freedom for Evelyn Cresthill’s life, and I wasn’t sure I could live with that decision. But if I didn’t, and if the gampei killed Evelyn, Jenny would lose her mother in a violent, irreversible way. She was only ten years old—if she never recovered from the trauma, that was two lives lost.
Two innocent lives against one. That was the calculus.
I tried to figure out how to reverse my earlier testimony. I could claim that the initials scratched on the entrenching tool hadn’t been there when Ernie and I purchased the shovel from the black market dealer in Paju-ri, but appeared later under circumstances unknown to me. As to what I’d said previously, I’d simply claim that I’d misunderstood the question. And that I wasn’t sure who scratched the initials on the entrenching tool, but it certainly wasn’t me. Ernie could be called back up to contest whatever he wanted, but that piece of evidence would be muddied enough to be thrown out. The bloodstains on the second shovel—the one found amongst Fusterman’s field gear—had been identified by the lab techs at Camp Zama as human blood, belonging to the same blood group as Corporal Noh. And since those results and other circumstantial evidence pointed to Fusterman’s guilt—in addition to the pressure to convict him—he’d be found guilty of the murder. Then everything would go back to normal at the JSA, and Evelyn Cresthill would be a free woman.
I still didn’t understand why the gampei wanted me to do this. Did they simply have a stake in international peace, or were they part of a broader scheme I couldn’t see? I suspected it had to do with Lieutenant Colonel Brunmeyer, JSA commander. What kind of deal had they struck with him that night?
Selling out wasn’t as hard as I thought. At least, it wasn’t at first. Once you’re telling 8th Army what they want to hear, any inconsistencies in your story are easily glossed over, either ignored or reinterpreted as needed to keep the narrative rolling.
I told them that the pressure of the JSA murder case, coupled with the disappearance of Evelyn Cresthill, had been too much for me. I’d gone on a bender, jolting back soju on the long nights Ernie and I had spent traipsing through Seoul. And then I’d often been separated from Ernie while drunk in several dives in a village on the outskirts of Seoul, a place I didn’t even remember the name of.
Major Reginald Pintergast, the JAG officer in charge of the Fusterman hearing, seemed sympathetic to my testimony. His dark-brown face smiled from behind round-lensed glasses. “I know what you mean,” he said encouragingly. “Half the time, you don’t know where you are because you can’t read the signs.”
I nodded agreement, not bothering to inform him that I could indeed read the signs. I continued my testimony by reneging on the entrenching tool story and testifying that the initials had somehow appeared on the tool after Ernie and I had purchased it in Paju-ri. I said I was sorry, that my memory had been cloudy due to my binges, but I’d now realized my mistake. Corrine Fitch glared at me, her pencil poised over a yellow legal pad, lips pursed. Finally, having heard enough, she stood and said, “You lied?”
“I just . . . made a mistake,” I said, nodding sheepishly.
As she paced the room in front of me, I inadvertently noticed the alternating movement of her hips, the taut flexing of her calves.
“Oh, no,” she said. “You didn’t make a mistake. Let’s call this what it is. You lied then, or you’re lying now due to pressure from the Judge Advocate General’s Office.” Before I could answer, she continued. “Initially, you told the truth, didn’t you? And when the truth wasn’t convenient for Eighth Army, they made your enlisted life so miserable that you couldn’t bear it. And now you’ve knuckled under to them and are lying to stay on the right side of the power structure in this goddamn military nuthouse.”
Major Pintergast pounded his gavel.
“Counselor,” he said, “I know you’re unfamiliar with how we do things here, but allow me to inform you that under no circumstances—and I mean no circumstances—are you to impugn the integrity of officers appointed to positions of authority in the United States Army.”
“Integrity?” Corrine bellowed. “Is that what you call it?”
In truth, I was proud of her, sticking to her guns like that and calling me out for my bald-faced lie. Maybe everyone in the debriefing room knew I was lying, but for them, that lie was convenient, even beneficial for their military careers. We’d come back from the brink of war on the Korean Peninsula and, more importantly, the piss-poor leadership of the 8th Army officer corps wouldn’t be held responsible for Noh’s death. Only Corrine Fitch had spoken out.
It wouldn’t take long for word to trickle down to the stockade that her client, PFC Teddy Fusterman, was not only accused, but was about to be rightfully convicted of murdering a fellow soldier. I pictured him alone in his cell, being yanked by the hair and kicked around by his MP guards. Once the word comes down that a particular inmate is guilty, even if he was once a fellow comrade-in-arms, there’s little limit to how much he can be abused, as long as you deliver him to court still breathing and with no marks obvious enough to cause embarrassment. The likes and dislikes of the military brass, though they always maintain deniability, are transmitted to the soldiers at the hands-on level, sometimes giving them license to release the most horrid of their pent-up sadist tendencies.
Major Pintergast continued to bully Corrine Fitch and deny every motion she made, and in the end, my testimony was accepted. It hurt to watch her sit there, simultaneously dejected and enraged, gripping the edge of the mahogany table. And I changed my mind about how easy it was to join the forces of evil.
When Fusterman’s court-martial started, Ernie asked to have Corporal June Muencher assigned permanently as his partner on the black market detail. After putting in the formal request with the Provost Marshal, he confronted me in the hallway.
“Lost your nerve, Sueño?”
“Not sure what you mean.”
“Don’t play dumb with me. You know exactly what I mean. You knuckled under pressure from Eighth Army and lied up there on the stand. They’ll probably reward you with some cushy job wiping the Provost Marshal’s ass.” He glared at me, waiting for me to retaliate. I didn’t.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, trying to go around him.
He stepped sideways and rammed his shoulder into mine. “Watch where you’re going.”
I stared at him for a moment, then twisted to slide past him. “Yeah,” I replied. “I’ll do that.”
At the court-martial, it was time for me to give my official testimony. This was no longer a hearing. The presiding officer called me as the first witness, and I gave testimony about what I’d seen and heard at the JSA the horrible morning we’d come upon the dented skull of Corporal Noh Jong-bei. And then I was asked about the entrenching tool. I told them about purchasing it at the shop of the Paju-ri military surplus dealer and the magical but belated appearance of the initials. Corrine Fitch was tough in her cross-examination, but there was no way for her to break my story. Finally, the presiding officer released me, and my parting footsteps echoed through a silent courtroom.
That night, I heard from Riley that a major KNP raid was taking place in the Mapo area of Seoul. I didn’t want to ask Ernie to borrow his jeep, so I hotfooted it out the front gate, waved down a kimchi cab, and told him what I was looking for. We didn’t have to cruise Mapo for long; an entire city block was alight with the red-and-blue flashing lights of KNP sedans and even an armored personnel carrier. It didn’t take me long after paying the driver to find Mr. Kill.
“We received an anonymous tip from a laundry delivery woman,” Mr. Kill told me, “about a Caucasian woman being held in a dingy apartment. The delivery woman suspected something
was wrong and called us.”
“Good for her. What’d you find?”
“Evelyn Cresthill,” he told me. “She’s alive and well. That’s her in the back of the sedan with Officer Oh.” We watched the sedan drive off to a nearby hospital. “We’ll have her checked out, then turn her over to your people.”
“Who was with her?” I asked.
“Just a couple of low-level punks. We’ll interrogate them, but I doubt they know much. They were left here, with Evelyn Cresthill’s presence not very well hidden, so whoever set this up wasn’t too concerned about her being found.”
Maybe, I thought, because I’d already given my testimony in the court-martial. The transcripts passed through a lot of hands, including numerous Korean employees. The gampei were probably being informed of the court proceedings—if not on a minute-by-minute basis, certainly by the hour.
He studied me. “I heard about your testimony.” When I didn’t respond, he said, “You’re up to something.”
Tears pricked at my eyes, but I fought them back. He was probably the only person on earth who knew I wouldn’t perjure myself without serious reason. “Whatever you’re up to, you should be careful.”
Then he patted me on the shoulder and walked away.
The next day, Evelyn Cresthill was returned to her family.
She testified to the KNPs and subsequently to 8th Army JAG that the gampei had threatened Jenny’s life if she didn’t resume working for them. At first, they promised that she had only a handful of “dates” to attend, and then she’d be let go. But they’d lied. She’d suspected they would, which was why she’d left her wedding ring in her quarters. She knew it was possible she’d never come back. After the first few outings, they used her sparingly, but she still wasn’t allowed to return home. Who her captors were, she couldn’t be sure. Just men, she said. Shin, the woman who originally recruited her, seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth.
Since the involuntary servitude of an American dependent wife on behalf of known Asian gang members was more than 8th Army wanted to contemplate—especially from a public relations standpoint—her story was kept out of the newspapers. At her request, in hopes of avoiding more emotional trauma, further investigation into her missing person case was summarily dropped.
Later, I sat in the 8th Army Snack Bar alone at a table, sipping coffee. Sergeant First Class Harvey, my buddy Strange, joined me.
“Heard about your cop-out,” he said.
Another time, I might’ve reached across the table and slapped the plastic cigarette holder from his lips. This time, I lowered my head and continued to sip the bitter java.
“I know you’re holding out for something,” he said.
I looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re lying low. Waiting to make a move.”
“What makes you think that?”
He pointed to the side of his head. “Brains.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” I said dismissively.
“I’m getting at Brunmeyer. Lieutenant Colonel, promotion-eligible. He’s been boffing your girl.”
I gripped my coffee cup tighter. Strange was a weird guy, but brilliant in his own way. There were a few NCOs like that, sitting like spiders in the web of the military bureaucracy, gorging themselves on secrets and washing them down with great drafts of rumor—processing data, often coming up with conclusions that no one else would’ve imagined. Without thinking, I said, “How’d you hear about that?”
Strange grinned. “I knew it,” he said. “Brunmeyer and Corrine Fitch. From what I hear, old Brunny has just about camped out at the Cosmos Hotel.” Strange grinned again, his thin lips stretching like greased vermicelli. Then he grew serious and leaned forward, glancing to his right and left to make sure no one was listening. “Some people are saying you’re ready to check your .45 out of the arms room and shoot them both. Preferably in flagrante delicto.”
When it comes to gossip, the soldiers at 8th Army headquarters make soap opera characters seem like monks who’ve taken a vow of silence.
“Bull,” I responded, not wanting to let Strange know how accurately he’d read my innermost thoughts.
Satisfied with himself, he leaned back and crossed his arms. “And your partner, Bascom, is so angry with you that he hasn’t even tried to tap that little piece he’s working with. What’s her name—June? Or should I call her Corporal Muencher?”
“Shut up about that,” I told him. Still, I continued to sit there, listening to 8th Army’s king of the dramatic arts. Partly because he might spill something that would be useful to me. Mostly because I was allowing myself to wallow in my grief. Then he surprised me.
“Why are you doing this to yourself, Sueño?”
He asked the question almost as if he were actually concerned, a real human being and not the pervert I usually encountered. I was so surprised by the question that I excused myself and went to the serving line to pull myself another cup of coffee from the huge stainless steel vat. After slapping a quarter on the cashier’s counter, I returned to the table. I sipped on my newly hot coffee and leaned toward Strange.
“Can you keep a secret?” I asked.
His eyes widened. Or at least, I imagined they did behind his opaque sunglasses. “Me? Of course.”
“I need to know the exact time Colonel Peele is having his next MAC meeting.”
“That’s classified.”
“I know it is. That’s why I’m asking you. You’re the head of Eighth Army Classified Documents.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I can find out.”
“You know how to reach me,” I told him. “I need this info.”
“What do I get in return?”
“This time, nothing.”
“No stories?”
“I’ve got nothing to tell.”
He eyed me cagily. “Hmm, we’ll see about that.” He started to rise.
“You’ll find out for me?” I asked.
“Posthaste,” he replied.
And I watched him waddle out of the 8th Army Snack Bar.
My next stop was the badminton field. Porter was there, playing alongside an elderly Korean gentleman who seemed to have telekinetic control of the shuttlecock. It floated back and forth across the makeshift net like a well-trained bird. Every now and then, a player swatted it ruthlessly and a point was scored. When the round was over, Porter joined me on the sidelines, breathing heavily.
“You’re getting the hang of this,” I told him.
“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “I’m starting to like it even when Miss Kim isn’t on my side.”
Which was what she’d been hoping for, I think. That Porter would begin to enjoy the exercise and maybe even find someone who was interested in him so she could let him down gently.
“Question for you,” I said.
“Shoot.”
“Who’s been picking up the JSA LOAs lately?” The Letters of Authorization for the Joint Security Area.
He whistled. “Funny you should mention it. I made a comment to our CO about those, and how much stuff they’re purchasing these days. I was told to shut up and mind my own business.”
“When’s the next pickup scheduled?”
“There’s no schedule, but they’ve been turning them in routinely on Fridays.”
“And doing their shopping the same day?”
“I suppose. Colonel Brunmeyer has been bringing a three-quarter-ton truck and a driver with him.”
“A GI or KATUSA?”
“ROK soldier,” Porter replied. “Not a KATUSA.”
“Odd,” I said.
“I thought so.”
His teammates were about to resume the game. Someone called Porter and he said, “Gotta go.”
“Okay, see ya,” I replied.
Fridays, I thought. And Colonel Brunmeyer had taken to having a South Korean soldier, someone not assigned to his unit, drive a three-quarter-ton truck for him. There were very few reasons he would do this. Soldiers in the ROK Army faced a much more severe discipline than American GIs, or even the KATUSAs assigned alongside them. If you wanted someone who would keep their mouth shut upon command, you couldn’t do better than a member of the ROK Army.
“What?” Ernie asked.
I’d stopped him in the parking lot outside the 8th Army CID office.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “Friday. There’s a meeting of the Military Armistice Commission up at the JSA at thirteen hundred hours.” One p.m.
“So?” Ernie asked.
“I want you to join me there.”
“Why? You going to throw yourself at Colonel Peele’s feet?”
I ignored the insult. “I want us armed and ready to make some arrests.”
“Who the hell are we going to arrest?”
Bypassing the question, I said, “I’ve already talked to Staff Sergeant Palinki. He’s on the dusk-to-dawn MP patrol in Itaewon, but when I told him what I planned to do, he told me that he wouldn’t mind missing a little sleep. He’s in. I don’t know about Corporal Muencher. You’ve been working with her, so you know her better than I do. Maybe she’ll come. But let her know that we could be landing feetfirst into a moist mountain of cow shit.”
Ernie squinted. “What the hell are you up to, Sueño?”
I told him. He eyed me suspiciously at first, but gradually a grin spread across his face.
“Bold,” he said, pronouncing the word with reverence. “So you’re not a sellout to the power structure.”
Now it was my turn to glare at him. He started to fidget, then said, “I knew it all along.” When he saw that I wasn’t buying it, he changed the subject. “I’ll take the jeep in for an oil change. The backseat’s already been replaced. Primo tuck-and-roll. One-hundred percent vinyl. And I’ll make sure the tank is topped off with gas.”
“Do that. And if Muencher decides to join us,” I told him, “have her check out an M16.”
