Nightmare Range

by Martin Limon

  When the defense lawyer went to work, he didn’t even try to dispute the facts. He just said that they couldn’t punish PFC Dwayne Ortfield because it would be detrimental to the mission of the 8th United States Army.

  I really couldn’t believe what he was saying. I wondered what it had to do with anything, and I kept waiting for the judge to cut him off, but they let him prattle on.

  Road conditions were tough in Korea, the defense lawyer said. Snow, rain, sleet, mudslides, downed bridges, loose electrical lines, mountain roads, floods, you name it.

  He had that right, anyway.

  And GIs were being sent out into these conditions all the time. They didn’t want to go, but the training mission of the 8th Army and the defense of the Republic of Korea required that they risk their lives in these hazardous conditions. Routinely.

  That was true but I didn’t understand what it had to do with the Ortfield case.

  If you punish a GI, the lawyer said, for responding to difficult traffic conditions and trying to make time through the undisciplined maze of Seoul, you’d be sending a message to all the other drivers of US military vehicles in Korea. The message would be: don’t take chances. If road conditions are rough, pull over. Or worse yet, refuse to haul the load. After all, one mistake and you end up with your career ruined, a criminal record, possibly with a sentence to the federal penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas.

  PFC Ortfield was just doing his job, the lawyer said. Sure, the antenna should’ve been properly secured. He made a mistake. He admits that. But he shouldn’t be punished for the unfortunate accident and for the unfortunate death of a civilian who happened to be standing one meter away from the curb.

  To my surprise the judge ordered a ten-minute adjournment.

  Ernie and I stood outside for a minute, away from all the people lighting up cigarettes and yapping about the case.

  “He’s gonna walk,” Ernie said.

  I swiveled my head. “You’re kidding. He might as well have stuck a gun to that little girl’s head and pulled the trigger.”

  “She was standing off the curb. He was doing his job.”

  “Everybody stands off the curb here. It’s a Korean custom. Besides, she was the safety monitor, and she was supposed to be directing the other girls. And doing your job doesn’t mean speeding through traffic with a loose antenna.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Ernie said. “The defense lawyer was exactly right. Those officers on the panel think about mission first. And if burning Ortfield will hurt the mission of the Eighth Army, they won’t burn him.”

  “No way. You’ve got to be wrong.”

  “Come on. You’ll see.”

  Everyone doused their cigarettes and headed back into the courtroom. We followed and took our seats. The judges filed back in.

  I heard the gavel and then the colonel’s voice, but I still couldn’t believe it.

  Private First Class Dwayne Ortfield was restricted to compound, his driver’s license suspended indefinitely, and 8th Army Personnel would be notified to review his current posting with respect to immediate reassignment.

  They were sending him back to the States with a slap on the wrist.

  I stood up and gripped the varnished wood railing. I wanted to scream. But when I saw the clean-shaven jaws of the judges and their crisply tailored jackets as they walked out, I knew it wouldn’t do any good.

  Ernie grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out into the cold winter air.

  At 8th Army Finance, it took a while for them to count the money in Korean won and stuff it into a leather briefcase. There was already a handcuff on the handle and I attached it to my wrist. It was heavy. Still, it didn’t seem like much to trade for a little girl’s life.

  Ernie slid the jeep between two kimchi cabs, honked his horn, found about three inches of open roadway, and hooked his fender in front of the cruising cabbie next to us. When the light turned green, he gunned the engine, swerved in front of the guy, and studied the madly swirling traffic ahead, prowling for his next opening.

  All of this was done while slumped back in his canvas seat, fingertips hanging lightly on the bottom of the steering wheel, his face set in a completely bored expression. Occasionally he veered wildly to the right or left, stepped on the gas, tapped lightly on the brakes. Ernie’s nervous system might’ve been seared by the war in Vietnam and the pure white horse he bought from the kids through the wire, but he was still one hell of a driver.

  He leaned toward me. “What was that address again?”

  I glanced at my clipboard. “One twenty-eight bonji, 533 ho, Kirum-dong.”

  He straightened his back. “Yeah. Kirum-dong. It’s right over here.”

  We had left the skyscrapers of central Seoul and were now in the outskirts of the vast city, heading north on the road that lead to Uijongbu and beyond that the DMZ. The Demilitarized Zone. The barbed and mined gash that slices through the sweet center of the Korean peninsula like a butcher’s knife through wurst.

  After the Korean War ended, no peace treaty was signed. There was only a cease-fire. The Communists in the north have an army of seven hundred thousand. The republic in the south has only four hundred and fifty thousand men under arms supplemented by the US Second Infantry Division. With both sides tense and armed to the teeth and staring at each other across the line every day, there are regular violations of the cease-fire. The casualties, if they are American, are reported to the world press. If the slaughter involves a North Korean or a South Korean, it’s kept quiet. They see it as a family affair. Nobody else’s business.

  Melted snow sprayed from the tires of the kimchi cabs in front of us as we sped through the gray overcast morning. I didn’t feel comfortable about dumping all this cash on the Choi family. It was a bona fide claim under the Status of Forces Agreement, but it seemed disrespectful somehow. As if the US government was saying, yeah, your daughter was slaughtered, but here’s the loot and don’t bother us any more.

  And Ernie and I were the messenger boys.

  We sat in silence. Ernie turned off the main road and swerved down a narrow lane; I checked the addresses. They were engraved in Chinese script on metal placards embedded in the stone or brick walls and difficult to read. I spotted one: 436 bonji.

  “Hang a left,” I said.

  Ernie turned the jeep uphill, and we passed shops on either side. Brightly colored stacks of preserved noodles and canned milk, stringy-limbed cuttlefish drying in the cold wind, corpses of skinned hogs hanging red and limp in a butcher’s window. The numbers changed fast and I was losing track, but I knew we were in the right area.

  “Pull over here.”

  Ernie parked the jeep snugly against a massive stone wall and chained and padlocked the steering wheel. We climbed out, bending our lower backs and stretching our legs.

  A stone stairway ran up the hill, lined on either side by brick walls and the gates to houses until it wound off out of sight. I looked at the address again.

  “Up there?” Ernie said.

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  Nothing is precise about Korean addresses. The city is divided first into sections (dong), then into areas (bonji), and finally into individually numbered dwellings (ho). And the numbers can be a mad swirl, winding back onto each other like a dragon’s tail. Still, the best way to find one was on foot. We trudged up the jagged staircase, stepping gingerly over the tenacious remnants of last week’s snow. A cold drizzle started, slashing into our faces, and stopped just as suddenly.

  When we rounded the corner, the alley widened, and in front of the open gateway stood a crowd of people. Schoolgirls for the most part. Silent. All wearing long black skirts and tight black waistcoats. Their shimmering ebony hair was capped with the neatly trimmed bangs, making them look like a flock of clipped ravens. They seemed to be praying. I realized that there was an even larger crowd inside the gate, and I saw the placard: 533 ho, Choi Heng-sok juteik, the residence of Mr. Choi, the father of the slain girl.

  We push
ed our way through the crowd, sullenly puffed faces turning as we passed. It was good to be surrounded by so much femininity, although they all seemed to hate me and they were all too young and our lives were lived worlds apart. Still, I liked them. The warmth of their massed bodies enveloped me and the freshness of their unscented skin filled my senses. I didn’t blame them for how they felt about me.

  Beyond the crowded courtyard, the paper-paneled doors of the main house had been slid back. Inside sat a group of elderly people, the men in baggy suits, the women in hanbok, flowing traditional Korean dresses. Towards the back of the room on some sort of wooden platform was a long, blanket-draped figure. The body.

  On the narrow wooden porch that ran the length of the house, a shrine had been set up. The sharp tang of incense bit into my sinuses. Surrounded by flowers of all colors was a large black and white photo of a plain, round-faced Korean girl. The only expression on her blank features seemed to be surprise, as if she never expected to receive so much attention. We always treat people better in death than we treat them in life.

  One by one, the schoolgirls filed forward and paid their respects. Some placed flowers on the growing bunches, others knelt and bowed their heads for a moment. A few crossed themselves. Most, however, raised their pressed palms to their forehead and lowered themselves in the Buddhist fashion.

  Wrinkled eyes in the darkened room turned toward us. I stepped in front of the porch, placed my feet together, and bowed slightly from the waist.

  “Anyonghaseiyo,” I said. “Nei irum Geogi ieyo. Mipalkun.”

  Good afternoon. My name is George. Eighth US Army.

  A slender woman in a western skirt and blouse rose and nodded and waved for us to enter.

  “Oso-oseiyo,” she said. Come in.

  She looked a little like the dead girl in the photograph, but I figured she was probably just an aunt. The two people next to the body, the ones with the tearstained faces and the disheveled hair, were unmistakably the parents. They looked as if their ears were still ringing from the explosion of an A-bomb.

  Ernie and I slipped off our shoes, stepped up on the narrow porch in our stocking feet, and entered the room. The solemn-faced occupants shuffled around on the vinyl floor to make room and slid a couple of embroidered purple cushions over for us to sit on.

  The body was covered not with a blanket but a light silk shroud. The girl still wore her black school uniform, although some spots were moist, as if someone had attempted to scrub off the bloodstains. The woman I assumed to be the mother crouched next to the body, and when I entered she leaned forward and pulled the shroud away from the face.

  I recoiled slightly but caught myself. One side of her head was red and raw. Indented. Caked with blood. She looked as if some twenty-foot prehistoric lizard had bounded out of an alley and chomped his fangs into her skull. I thought about a speeding jeep and laughing, careless GIs. In some respects there wasn’t much difference.

  The mother leaned forward, touching the cold flesh with her lips, and whispered to the corpse.

  “Sonnim wayo. Musopjima.” Guest have arrived. Don’t be afraid.

  Ernie looked at me, his pale eyebrows rising slightly. I widened my eyes and turned away from his gaze. We sat down on the cushions.

  I busied myself with my clipboard. Nothing like paperwork to help you keep your bearings in a situation that’s threatening to reel off into insanity.

  The receipt for the money had to be filled out and verified by officials of the US government, namely me and Ernie. I cleared my throat and started asking questions.

  “Who are the parents?”

  All heads turned to the woman squatting next to the body and a man sitting cross-legged on the floor next to her. He was unbelievably thin, but he held his back perfectly straight. A white shirt and tie seemed incongruously bring beneath his weathered face. His cheekbones were high, like ridges of stone.

  “You are Choi Heng-sok?”

  He nodded.

  “And the deceased is your daughter?”

  He nodded again.

  “May I see some identification?”

  The words were written right there on the questionnaire, but as soon as I said them, I regretted them. An intake of breath rustled through the crowd. Even Ernie glanced over at me. Mr. Choi didn’t seem to notice, however. He reached back in his wallet and pulled out a laminated card and handed it across to me with bony, leather-skinned fingers, as steady as his rock-like expression.

  I took the card, placed it on my clipboard, and copied down the Korean National Identification number. When I was finished, I handed it back to him.

  As I filled in the receipt, I sensed movement next to the body. Something rustled. Then something shrieked.

  “She is my daughter!” the woman screamed. “My baby and you have killed her!”

  Ernie started to stand up. A couple of the relatives slid across the floor toward her, getting between us. Soon she was enveloped in grasping hands and cooing words.

  She was crying now, shaking her head violently, her lips and cheeks quivering, drool dripping from her mouth.

  I filled out the last of the form. Mr. Choi had turned toward his wife but looked back at me when I thrust the clipboard toward him.

  “Sign,” I said. “It is necessary to receive your claim.”

  He nodded and took the board from my hand, and while I pointed at the signature block he scribbled three Chinese characters in a quick, sure hand. He started to give it back to me, but I wouldn’t take it.

  “Your wife must sign also.”

  He stared at me, confused. In Korea, a husband can sign for the entire family. He and his ancestors had a long acquaintance with the peculiarities of red tape, however, and he was dealing with foreigners, after all. Acceptance came to his face and he slid forward across the immaculately polished floor. He and the other relatives soothed the girl’s mother. She kept mumbling about the beasts from across the sea, and her family laughed nervously, glancing at us, hoping Ernie and I wouldn’t take offense.

  Ernie couldn’t understand much Korean, but he knew an insult when he heard it. Still, it didn’t seem to bother him. After the initial shock of the scream, he had settled back on his cushion. The only concession he made to nervousness was a stick of gum that he pulled out of his pocket and resolutely chomped on. He hadn’t offered gum to anyone else, which was unlike him. I knew he hadn’t suddenly become stingy. He was just preoccupied. Worried about getting fragged.

  Mr. Choi and the others finally convinced the girl’s mother to sign the form. They handed it back to me. Her signature looked like the frenzied slashes of a sharp blade.

  I slid the money to him. Ernie and I stood.

  For a moment I thought of saying I’m sorry. It would be embarrassing, but it would probably do them a lot of good. But I hadn’t killed their daughter. I wasn’t Dwayne Ortfield. And I wasn’t the US government that had brought him over here.

  I tried to think of other times I’d heard apologies on behalf of the US government. I couldn’t think of any.

  Maybe there was a regulation against it.

  The mother started to cry. Softly this time.

  A solemn man who’d been sitting by himself in a corner leaned forward and riffled through the briefcase, stacking the money on the floor and counting it. At first I thought he was some sort of bodyguard. He was tall and lean and strong, watchful of everything. But then I realized he must be the lawyer. Taking charge of the finances. I wondered what his cut would be. Probably half.

  We backed out of the room. To turn while leaving would’ve been a sign of disrespect. With things as tense as they were, even Ernie wouldn’t risk delivering such a slap in the face.

  The courtyard was empty. The girls must’ve finished their ceremony and left so quickly that I hadn’t noticed. We shuffled across flat stone steps, but before we reached the gate, I heard footsteps behind me and someone grabbed me by the arm. I swiveled and stared into the stern face of the lawyer.

&nb
sp; “What of Ortfield?” His English was heavily accented but understandable.

  “The court-martial is finished,” I said. “He will be sent back to the States.”

  “That is all? No jail? No punishment?”

  I shook my head.

  “Nothing?”

  “He won’t last long in the army,” I said. “He will never be promoted again.”

  His narrow eyes hardened. “That will not be good enough for Mr. Choi.”

  I shrugged. “There is nothing I can do.”

  Ernie stepped forward, positioning himself to kick the lawyer in the groin. I waved him back with the flat of my palm.

  The lawyer glanced at him, coldly evaluating his size and strength, and turned back to me. His grip on my arm was strong, and his confidence, facing men a head taller than him, was impressive.

  “The parents demand justice,” he said.

  “It is too late for that. The Korean police gave up jurisdiction.”

  “When does Ortfield leave?”

  “Soon.”

  “Not soon enough,” he said. “He won’t board an airplane without …” He searched for a word. “Without atonement.” He waved his arm around the courtyard. “This may not seem like the home of a rich man, but Mr. Choi lived a hard life, and when he made money he saved it. There are many people who will do his bidding for the right price.”

  There was no question about that. The going rate for a murder in Seoul was about two hundred thousand won—three hundred dollars US.

  Ernie’d had enough. He pushed his way in front of me. “Are you threatening me?”

  The lawyer let go of my arm and backed off half a step. “Not you.”

  “Ortfield then?”

  “Yes.” The lawyer nodded. “He will pay.”

  I grabbed Ernie by the elbow. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  He resisted, but I yanked him toward the wooden gate and pushed him outside. The lawyer didn’t follow.

  I started to say something. To tell Ernie that they were just upset and the threats didn’t mean anything, but I gazed down the alleyway and my mouth slammed shut.