by Martin Limon
Lucy repeated what I said. Some of the women looked sad, others showed no expression.
“We know about rape,” Lucy said. “Anybody here know about rape.” She pointed at the women surrounding the table, jabbing her forefinger at them one by one. “We all young during Korean War. G.I. come, Communist come, United Nations come, Chinese come. Anybody try find Korean woman. Any Korean woman run away. Sometimes hide. Most time can’t hide. Why? Need food. Need water. Need medicine. Otherwise no can live. Our mama sick, daddy sick, baby sick, how we let them die?”
Lucy stared at me, expecting an answer. I had none.
“We do what we gotta do,” she continued. “That time, who have most money? American G.I. So we go, learn speak American language. Learn about G.I., learn how to make money. Learn how to blackmarket. So G.I. hurt Korean woman on Blue Train, we know. We know all about anything.”
She waved her arm.
Some of the women nervously lit new cigarettes or poured themselves more hot water. One of them whispered, “Aiyu, mali manta.” You talk too much.
Lucy ignored the comment.
“So Lucy, will you help us find him, or not?”
She pointed at the wrinkled photocopy. “Pruchert, he not do.”
“So you do know him?”
“We know.”
“What makes you so sure he didn’t do anything?”
“Lucy know.”
“Maybe you should let us decide that,” Ernie said.
Most women love Ernie and his irreverent attitude. For some reason, Lucy didn’t.
“Okay,” she said, “you decide. Hurry up, find out.”
“Where is he, Lucy?” I asked. “When did you last see him?”
“Yesterday. He come do black market.”
“What did he sell?”
“Wristwatch. Good one. G.I. only can buy one each year, so he sell good one.”
Under the 8th Army ration-control system, only one each of certain expensive items can be purchased by any given G.I. during a one-year tour. Only one stereo set, only one television, and only one wristwatch. At the end of the year, before he’s cleared to leave the country, the G.I. must either produce the item or produce a document showing he shipped it legally back to the States. There are ways around that, such as claiming the item was stolen, and some G.I. s are foolish enough to just sell the item on the black market and worry about justifying it later. They often get away with it because some units are not as diligent about checking on the rationed items as they should be.
“After he sold it, where did he go?”
“Same place he all the time go. You don’t know?”
“No. I don’t know. Tell me.”
“He go casino. You know. Down in Pusan.”
“He makes money selling on the black market, and then he takes that money and throws it away in a casino?”
“Lotta G.I. do.”
“What casino did he go to?”
“In Pusan only one. Beautiful place. Haeundae Beach.”
I’d heard of it, but I’d never been there. Maybe Pruchert went to the Haeundae Casino, and maybe he didn’t. Maybe that’s what he told Lucy. Maybe instead he took a cab over to the train station and hopped on the Blue Train.
“How do you know he went to the casino?” I asked.
“He all the time need money. All the time worried about honcho find out he black market. All the time worried honcho find out he go to casino.”
Signal sites deal with a lot of top-secret traffic. People into various types of depravity, including compulsive gambling, are considered to be security risks and, as such, lose their clearances. The U.S. Army Signal Corps is a hothouse of pressure; a difficult job to perform and everyone watching everyone else. It figured that Pruchert would want to get away; and if he were blackmarketing and gambling, he’d want to concoct a good cover story, such as meditating at a Buddhist monastery. Of course, he’d also need a good cover story if he were the Blue Train rapist.
I asked Lucy and the other women a few more questions, but it soon became obvious that if Ernie and I wanted to know more about Corporal Robert R. Pruchert, we’d have to find him ourselves.
We thanked the women and left. Lucy followed us to the front gate.
“Pruchert good boy,” she told us. “Dingy dingy but good boy.”
She whirled her forefinger around her right ear, indicating that Pruchert was dingy dingy. Nuts.
“So you don’t think Pruchert is the Blue Train rapist?” I asked.
“No,” Lucy said, crossing her arms. “He not.”
“If you’re so smart,” Ernie said, “then tell us who is.”
“I tell,” Lucy replied. “Blue Train rapist bad man. Very bad man. But when anybody see any day, he look like good man. Lucy, any woman in G.I. Heaven, we all before trust good man. We all before tricked by good man. We all before, rape. Now, we anybody no trust.”
We ducked out through the gate into the stinking pathway that ran in front of G.I. Heaven. Back on the pedestrian lane running through the bar district, Ernie shook himself like a golden retriever shaking off rain.
“Creepy,” he said.
“It takes a lot to creep you out.”
“That it does,” he replied, “but G.I. Heaven managed.”
***
We jogged across the main supply route. At the front gate of Camp Henry, the MP guard said, “Where in the hell you guys been?”
“What do you mean?”
“Last night in Waegwan, weren’t you supposed to be guarding that USO show? The Country Western All Stars?”
Ernie stepped close to the MP. “What happened?”
The guy told us. Or at least he told us part of it. We ran to the Camp Henry Medical Dispensary.
11
Ernie pointed to the rubber tube sticking up the MP’s nose.
“That must hurt,” he said.
“Only when I yodel,” the MP replied.
His name was Dorsett. He was the MP assigned last night to guard the Country Western All Stars after we’d left Waegwan. His hospital bed had been cranked up so he could watch the soap operas playing on AFKN. It was an open bay, and about a half dozen other G.I. s lounged in beds in various states of repose.
“So who popped you?” Ernie asked.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” he said.
Dorsett told the story. He’d been assigned to guard the rear of the Camp Carroll Female BOQ., bachelor officers’ quarters. The Quonset hut assigned to the Country Western All Stars was deserted except for them, and they each had their own room, but they had to share a communal bathroom. Through the high windows, Dorsett could hear the showers running.
“Did you let your imagination get the best of you?” Ernie asked.
“No way. I was plenty alert. Whoever hit me hid himself inside the closet that holds the water heaters. He must’ve been in there for over an hour, because that’s how long we’d been there, even before the band finished their show. As I passed by, the door creaked open and before I could turn something hit me. I went down.”
“Did you see anything?”
“Nothing. It happened too fast.”
“What about your. 45?”
“They found it later. In a trash can toward the front of the BOQ.”
“What’s the doc say?” Ernie asked.
“He says I’m a stupid butt for not checking inside the room that held the water heaters.”
Marnie wasn’t as excited to see Ernie this time. She seemed distracted and, for the first time since I’d known her, she was puffing away on a cigarette. As we strode up onto the stage of the Camp Henry NCO Club, the other girls greeted us. Cymbals clanged and the bass guitar plunked as Ernie sat down in front of Marnie and asked her what was wrong.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she said, turning her head, blowing out smoke.
“None of you were hurt last night, were you?”
“No. Nobody hurt. Scared shitless, but not hurt.”
“Tell us
what happened, Marnie,” I said.
Marnie shook her head, making her stiff blonde locks rustle beneath the cowgirl hat. She sighed and started talking. “Shelly was taking a shower. The rest of us were in our rooms. I heard footsteps tromping down the central aisle, you know, man’s footsteps, those big combat boots that the G.I. s wear, but I didn’t think anything of it. I figured it was just the MP patrol or the base commander coming over to thank us or something like that. The footsteps went down the hallway, past my room toward the bathroom.”
“The latrine,” Ernie said.
“Whatever you call it. So I thought that was sort of weird, some man walking toward our bathroom, but before I could do anything about it, somebody screamed.”
“Shelly?” I asked.
“None other. I threw on my robe and I was about to step out my door when I heard the same heavy footsteps coming back down the hallway, and I was looking for my shotgun and then I realized I’d left it back in Austin and suddenly I was afraid to open the door. Finally, when the footsteps subsided I ran to the bathroom and found Shelly. She was okay. She said some man had been there rummaging in her bag that was sitting on the bench in front of her shower stall.”
“Did she see him?”
“Ask her.”
By now, Shelly had joined us. She pulled over a stool and sat down. “I saw his back,” she said. “He was wearing an army uniform, the same one everyone else wears around here.”
“Fatigues,” Ernie said.
“Yeah. But I didn’t see his face. Only his back. He was Caucasian, I think, but even that I can’t be sure of.”
“But he could’ve been black,” Marnie said.
Shelly shrugged. “Could’ve been. All I saw was his back and then I pulled the shower curtain shut and knelt down in the corner, trying to make myself small.”
“But he left when you screamed?” I asked.
“Yes,” Shelly replied. “In a hurry.”
“Did he take anything?” Ernie asked.
Shelly rolled her eyes. “It’s embarrassing.”
Marnie spoke for her. “Damn, Shelly. It’s only a bra and panties.”
“Yeah, but they were my bra and panties.”
“What color were they?” Ernie asked, deadpan.
Shelly rolled her eyes. “Red.”
“Lace,” Ernie asked, “or straight cotton?”
Shelly glared at him. “Lace,” she said.
Ernie tipped an imaginary hat. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said.
After Shelly left, Marnie inhaled deeply on her cigarette, held the smoke in her lungs for a while, and then blew the gray mist out in a steady stream. When it was gone, she seemed out of breath. Her voice came out weak.
“What she’s not telling you is what happened after the guy ran out of the building.”
“Tell us,” I said.
“There’s a phone in the hallway and the emergency number for the Military Police is painted on the wall, so I dialed it and a few minutes later the MPs showed up. They found that poor MP out back, still unconscious, and called an ambulance and took him away. They also found someone else outside. Someone in a jeep.”
Marnie continued to puff on her cigarette.
Finally, Ernie said, “Freddy Ray.”
“How’d you know?” Marnie asked.
“Just a guess. He knew you were playing at Camp Carroll. He hopped in a jeep and drove out there.”
Marnie nodded.
“Did the MPs question him?” I asked.
“They questioned him.”
“Did you have a chance to talk to him?”
Marnie shook her head. “No.”
I finished her thought for her. “And some of the MPs thought that Freddy Ray might be the peeper, the guy who’d stolen Shelly’s bra and panties.”
“That’s what they thought,” she said.
“What do you think?” Ernie asked.
Marnie stubbed out her cigarette. “I don’t know what to think.”
She rose from her chair and strode over to her keyboard and plugged it in.
Camp Henry is a small compound, just five or six hundred yards wide in any direction. We walked the hundred or so yards from the NCO Club to the 19th Support Group headquarters. In the foyer, we read the signs and Ernie followed me down to the 19th Support Group Personnel Service Center (PSC). The door was locked. Ernie rattled it and then turned back to me. “It’s six p.m. The duty day ends at five.”
I went back to the entranceway and checked the sign. The Staff Duty Officer was in room 102. We went back down the hallway, turned left, and spotted a light on and a door open. We stepped inside.
The Duty Officer was a young man with curly brown hair. He sat behind a gray armyissue desk, his chair facing away from us, watching the Armed Forces Korea Network on a black-and-white portable television. He looked almost like a teenager relaxing on his mother’s couch. When he heard us come in, he fumbled with the knob, turned off the set, and swiveled on the chair to face us. His rank was second lieutenant. His name tag said Timmons.
I showed him my badge.
“Lieutenant Timmons,” I said, smiling. “Looks like you caught the duty tonight.”
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“No. I’m Agent Sueno. And this is my partner, Agent Bascom. We’re from the Seoul CID office.”
“All the way down here?”
“All the way down here,” I said.
Ernie took a seat on a padded gray vinyl chair. He usually let me handle bureaucratic transactions, as long as we got what we wanted.
“What can I do for you?” Timmons asked.
“What we’re here about,” I said, spreading my fingers, “is the security of the USO show.”
“The Country Western All Stars,” he said.
“The same. We’re supposed to keep an eye on them, all five musicians, and we understand that there was a problem at Camp Carroll last night.”
“So I heard.”
“I want you to help us find Captain Freddy Ray Embry.”
Timmons’s face darkened. “The accusations they’re making about him, they’re not true. Captain Embry is one of our finest officers.”
“I’m sure he is. Still, we have to talk to him. Where can we find him?”
“I’ll get him on the horn right away.”
Timmons reached for the phone. I stayed his hand.
“No. It’s better if we talk to him in person.”
“Where’s he work?” Ernie asked.
“At the logistics supply depot. He keeps our eighteen-wheelers running up and down the spine of the Korean peninsula.”
“He’s off duty now,” I said, “so where are his quarters?”
“I’m not sure.” Timmons rose to his feet and walked across the room to a large metal cabinet bolted to the wall, fiddled with a combination lock, and finally pulled back the sliding doors. He searched until he found the right key, took it out, relocked the cabinet, and told us to follow him down the hallway. Timmons entered an office with a sign that said Officer Records. He switched on the light, unlocked a filing cabinet, and, after searching for a few minutes, found the personnel folder of Captain Frederick Raymond Embry. He pulled out the billeting assignment sheet and, as he did so, Ernie and I studied the black-andwhite photo of Captain Embry.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised, but somehow I was. We all project our stereotypes onto people, and somehow I didn’t expect a female country-western singer from Austin, Texas, to have been married to a black man. And I hadn’t expected a former Texas A amp;M cadet of the Reserve Officer Training Corps to be of African descent. Of course, the color barrier at Texas A amp;M had been broken years ago, but still most of the graduates during the sixties were white.
I studied Ernie’s face. His expression didn’t change. At least this went part of the way toward explaining Marnie’s suggestion that the intruder very well could have been black.
Lieutenant Timmons jotted down Captain Embry’s billeting a
ssignment and handed me the slip of paper.
“Here you are,” he said. “I’m sure Captain Embry will be happy to see his former wife.”
“I’m sure he will,” I replied.
I slipped the paper into my pocket and Ernie and I left the 19th Support Group Headquarters building. The Bachelor Officer Quarters were on the far side of the compound; still, the walk took us less than ten minutes.
“Timmons knew,” Ernie said, “that Captain Embry had been married to one of the Country Western All Stars.”
“G.I. s gossip,” I said.
More than old ladies, I thought, but I left that unsaid.
When Ernie and I reached the BOQ area, we entered Building C. At the door to room C9, Ernie knocked. Nobody answered. Ernie pounded on the door again. Finally, the door creaked open. The room was dark.
Ernie said, “Embry? You in here?”
Nobody answered. Ernie repeated himself. Finally an exasperated voice said, “Who the hell is it?”
Ernie stepped inside.
I swept my hand along the wall, searching for the light switch. I found it and switched it on. Light blazed into the room, blinding me.
Someone shouted, “Turn that damn light off!”
I did. Ernie, meanwhile, had found a window and opened the shades. In the fading afternoon light, a man sat on the edge of an armyissue bunk, his face in his hands.
“Captain Embry?” I said.
“What the hell do you want?” he asked.
I told him. Then I started asking questions. Captain Embry denied having hit any MP last night and denied having entered the women’s latrine. He vehemently denied stealing a red bra and panties.
“She wrote to me,” he said. “Asked me to come see her when the show arrived. I did. I checked out a jeep last night, drove up to Waegwan. I was sitting outside their BOQ, trying to decide if I should really talk to her or if I should just let the past be the past.”
He remained on the edge of his bunk, his head drooped, his big hands spread over square knees.
“Do you have the letter?” I asked.
He stared up at me, brown eyes luminously moist. Finally, he snorted. “Yeah. I have it. There. On the desk.”
Ernie switched on a green-shaded desk lamp, rummaged through paperwork, and lifted a letter into the light and examined the envelope. When he was finished, he tossed it to me. By now the sun was just about down, but I had left the door open and there was enough illumination from the desk lamp and the fluorescent bulbs in the hallway to read. I scanned the letter quickly.
