by Martin Limon
Field duty—days and even weeks in the rain and the mud— grows old fast. Still, it seemed odd to me that a move-out alert had been called only an hour before a well-publicized student demonstration was to begin. Who had called the alert? Eighth Army? The United Nations Command in Seoul? I had no way of knowing. Maybe someone thought that calling an alert at such a time would replicate real-world situations and therefore provide realistic training. After all, war can break out anytime, even when it’s inconvenient. Maybe. But I didn’t believe it. My mistrust of coincidence made me think that something was up. Maybe something bigger than anyone imagined.
More troop transports full of infantry soldiers rolled out of the main gate of Camp Casey, followed by heavy artillery pieces and jeeps and commo vehicles and mess trucks and vehicles of all shapes and descriptions.
“Look.” Ernie pointed down the MSR about a mile at a gas station near the outskirts of town. Buses pulled in. Vans, taxicabs, all sorts of civilian conveyances. Students wearing black armbands and carrying picket signs written in both English and Korean were starting to gather. A steady stream of vehicles snaked down the MSR, heading toward Tongduchon. As we watched, the crowd grew larger. To the west about three blocks, at Tonduchon Station, the local train from Seoul pulled in. When it stopped, like a centipede shedding eggs, a jillion students popped out of the ten or so cars. Leaders with megaphones formed them into groups, shouting instructions, handing out black armbands and signs.
“Christ,” Ernie said, “half of Seoul is coming up here.”
“And a train is due every thirty minutes.”
“They’re really serious. Not like that paltry little group last time.”
We went back downstairs. Ok-hi fed us: steamed rice, kimchee, bowls of dubu jigei, spiced bean curd soup. She also found us two strips of white cloth that she helped us tie around our heads. Then, while we kneeled in front of her, she used red paint—mimicking blood—to write in hangul the name Chon Un-suk. Thus outfitted, Ernie and I thanked Ok-hi and, though she tried to refuse, I paid her for her time and the food and the effort she’d expended to help us. She promised to guard the Thousand Crane Vase with her life.
Ernie and I bounced out into the street, keeping a wary eye out for both the MPs and the KNPs. It was easy enough to avoid them. The Korean National Police were preoccupied with protecting the TDC police station and with setting up an assault position near the railroad tracks across from Camp Casey’s main gate. The American MPs were on compound, bracing for trouble.
Ernie and I slipped through a narrow alley between the bar district and the Main Supply Route. Once on the MSR, we strolled casually into the stream of protestors shouting and marching toward the main gate of Camp Casey. Picket signs saying YANKEE GO HOME and JUSTICE FOR CHON UN-SUK competed with the dozens of black-edged blowups of the deceased middle-school girl. Soon, the stream we were in joined other streams and, as we approached the line of MPs guarding the main gate, we became part of a mighty river.
15
Ernie and I pushed through the crowd, occasionally raising our fists and shouting indecipherable remarks that blended in with the periodic shouts from the crowd. This type of activity had ingratiated us to the protestors at the previous demonstration. Many of them had smiled and said “komapta”—thank you—and some of them had patted us on the back. But this group was much larger and much more sure of their power, and, therefore, more surly. For our efforts, Ernie and I received dirty looks and for once I didn’t feel safe amidst a crowd of Koreans. We kept moving. Not only because we were nervous, but because we were looking for a way to slip onto Camp Casey.
All that had happened for the first few minutes were a bunch of monotonous speeches shouted through megaphones. Madame Chon hadn’t spoken yet and I wasn’t sure if she would. Probably not. Maybe the KCIA had arrested her. Jill wasn’t visible either. Were Jill’s assurances that we’d be able to slip onto the compound during the demonstration a diversion to distract us while she looked for an opportunity to slip away herself? I didn’t think so. Something was going to happen soon.
No more vehicles were leaving Camp Casey. The rest of the Division, other than the four or five dozen MPs guarding the main gate, had already moved out.
“This is bull!” Ernie said. “We have to make something happen.”
A roar went up from the crowd. Two, maybe three thousand people were jammed into the road in front of Camp Casey, and it seemed that each and every one of them had riveted their attention on the KNPs lined up along the railroad tracks.
But then I saw that it wasn’t the railroad tracks the crowd was staring at but rather a soldier, in a U.S. Army uniform, who’d just climbed up on a platform. The soldier’s back was to me but I could see the black leather armband and the shining black helmet of an MP. Then one of the students handed the MP a megaphone and the MP turned around to face us. The crowd roared their approval. It was Military Policewoman Corporal Jill Matthewson, in full regalia. Once again, she looked squared away. A real soldier. Then she saluted the crowd, which exploded into applause.
It dawned on me that every action of Jill’s to this point had been done with a purpose in mind. Jill raised the megaphone to her mouth and started to speak. As she did so, a young Korean man climbed onto the platform next to her, and using his own megaphone, repeated what she said in Korean.
Her speech was nothing new to me and Ernie. But coming from a soldier in uniform, its impact was overwhelming. The crowd was energized by her words and as she continued to speak, the level of outrage seemed to grow, swelling each heart with indignation.
Jill Matthewson spoke of arrogance. Of the arrogance of the men running Camp Casey who thought of women as objects for their entertainment. Of the arrogance with which they flouted the laws of the Republic of Korea, selling cheap imported PX goods on the black market, thus stifling the growth of indigenous Korean industry. Of the arrogance of men who allowed American soldiers to operate dangerous vehicles under poor driving conditions and didn’t hold them accountable for their recklessness. Of the arrogance that caused Korean women to be raped behind closed doors. Of the arrogance that caused the bosses on Camp Casey to sneer at the Korean judicial system. Of the arrogance that allowed two GIs—GIs who had admitted killing Chon Un-suk—to return to the United States without facing Korean justice.
The crowd was in a frenzy now, surging toward Jill, reaching out their hands. The Korean student with her was shouting through his megaphone, “Chon Un-suk kiokhei!” Remember Chon Un-suk! “Jil Ma-tyu-son mansei!” Long live Jill Matthewson!
As the crowd reached up to her, Jill touched their hands and then grabbed the rim of her MP helmet and whipped it off. With a sweeping motion, she tossed it into the crowd. The crowd screamed and men jumped to grab the helmet. Then she reached behind her head, unhooked a metal clasp and, shaking it loose, allowed her long, reddish blonde hair to swing free. The crowd roared madly.
She lifted her megaphone to her lips and pointed at the giant MP looming some twenty yards behind the Camp Casey Main Gate.
“He must die!” she shouted.
Then she swiveled and pointed at the KNPs lining the railroad tracks across the MSR from Camp Casey. This time she spoke in Korean.
“Bikyo!” she shouted. Make way. “Bali bikyo.” Make way quickly.
Behind the tracks, from amongst the shops that lined the road that led to the Western Corridor, an engine roared. Almost as loud as a train but not running on rails. From between the shops a wooden prow appeared. Dark green. Massive. Growing larger as its engines groaned. And then the huge moving mass crossed the slight ridge behind the tracks and came fully into view.
“What the hell is it?” Ernie asked.
I’d seen one before. When I was in the artillery and we practiced moving trucks and howitzers across fast-flowing rivers.
“A pontoon,” I shouted. “Mechanized.”
Eighteen wheels below, a boat-shaped body and a folding platform on top. Only just enough space in a
carved-out corner for a driver with goggles. The driver stepped on the gas and aimed the enormous river-crossing vehicle directly at the line of Korean policeman.
Jill shouted through her megaphone once again. “Bikyo. Balli Bikyo.” Get out of the way. Quickly get out of the way.
The KNPs turned, staring in amazement at the great vehicle bearing down on them. Some of them broke ranks. The rolling pontoon bounced as it crossed the ridge and roared directly at them.
The KNPs dropped their weapons and ran.
Before the crowd had time to cheer at this development, Jill and the student next to her were screaming into their megaphones for them to make way, too. The crowd parted like the Red Sea. Ernie and I jumped, but we were only a few feet from the wheeled pontoon as it chugged past us, heading directly for the main gate of Camp Casey.
Jill Matthewson didn’t order the American MPs to disperse; she didn’t have to. They scattered, clearing a path for the huge vehicle as it headed right at the MP guard shack in front of the gate. At the last second, the pontoon swerved to the right, clipped the guard shack and then plowed into the tall chain link fence that surrounded Camp Casey. The fence buckled, held for a second, and collapsed. The pontoon kept rolling and the wooden arch above the gateway—the one that said 2ND INFANTRY DIVISON, SECOND TO NONE!—folded backwards and then fell onto a growing pile of chain link, concertina wire, and splintered wood.
The crowd roared once again and the student protestors surged through the gate, ripping and tearing as they went.
Ernie and I fought our way through. When we passed the giant MP and neared the front door of the Provost Marshal’s Office, we ripped off our white bandannas of protest. MPs had gathered there, preparing to make a last stand. Because we were Americans, the MPs didn’t take notice of us—the dragnet for two 8th Army CID agents was forgotten. They allowed us to enter the premises of the 2nd Division Provost Marshal’s Office.
The front desk was pandemonium. The on-duty desk sergeant was on the radio, signaling frantically to Division headquarters out in the field and then I Corps headquarters down in Uijongbu. A couple of MP lieutenants ran into one another, shouting orders, but I wasn’t sure what they expected to accomplish. The mob was on compound now, moving wherever it wanted to.
Temporarily, the student demonstrators had become fascinated with tearing down the PX hot dog stand, only ten yards inside the main gate. Sodas and buns were being tossed out to the crowd. The white-smocked Korean girl who ran the hot dog stand fled in terror. The pontoon vehicle was blocked by the debris of the main gate but the driver was backing it up, and some of the students were helping to untangle the chain link and wire knotted beneath the front axle. In a matter of minutes, it would be back in operation.
Had the timing of the Division-wide move-out alert been sheer coincidence? I didn’t think so. Colonel Han Kuk-chei came from a revered yangban family and would have connections throughout the ROK military and the government. Jill might be involved in something bigger than she’d admitted to us. Perhaps Colonel Han’s friends in high places were able to maneuver the United Nations Command in Seoul into ordering an alert just when Colonel Han needed it. This melee might be part of a larger coup against the government.
But what I needed desperately was proof that the Division honchos had been illegally black-marketing, which would be a motive for murdering both Private Marvin Druwood and the entertainment agent, Pak Tong-i. And attempting to murder Corporal Jill Matthewson and Agents George Sueño and Ernie Bascom, because we were on the verge of exposing them. Their careers would be over; they’d be stripped of privilege and rank and, not incidentally, their retirement checks. And very likely they’d do hard time in a federal penitentiary.
So far, the Korean National Police and the American MPs had shown admirable restraint. They had not fired on the crowd. Only a few ineffective tear gas canisters had been launched, but they’d been haphazardly placed and had been disposed of quickly by the braver students.
Ernie and I ignored the pandemonium of the PMO front desk and trotted down the hallway toward Colonel Alcott’s office.
One of the conceits of field-grade officers and high-ranking NCOs when they’re stationed overseas is to have their own customized living quarters. Their wives and children are back stateside so, naturally, a man who’s had a long and illustrious military career believes that he deserves his own bachelor pad. One of the status symbols is to move your quarters out of the staid old BOQ, Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, and have private quarters within walking distance of your workplace. The more rank and influence you have, the more likely you are to be granted this amenity. As Provost Marshal of the 2nd Infantry Division, Lieutenant Colonel Stanley X. Alcott rated nothing but the best.
A middle-aged Korean woman sat at a desk in the reception area of Colonel Alcott’s office. She wore her raincoat and her galoshes and nervously toyed with her umbrella.
“Wei ankayo?” I asked her in Korean. Why haven’t you left?
“Motka,” she answered without thinking. I can’t go. Then she switched to English. “There are too many demonstrators outside. I can’t go now.”
“Where’s the Colonel?”
“Outside,” she answered. “Somewhere. I’m worried for him.”
“I’m glad,” Ernie said. “Where are his quarters?”
“His what?”
“Chimdei,” I said. His bed.
The woman’s eyes widened at the unintended double entendre.
“Na ottokei allayo?” she replied. How would I know?
I slammed my fist on her desk.
“Odi?” I shouted. Where?
I hate to be rude, but I had no time to tiptoe around this woman’s sense of propriety. She stood up as if she’d been given an electric shock.
“I show,” she said.
We followed her into Colonel Alcott’s office. A mahogany desk, leather chairs, the flags of the Republic of Korea, the United States, and the United Nations hanging from poles behind the desk. The walls were lined with bookshelves packed with bound copies of Army Regulations and volumes concerning the Uniform Code of Military Justice. There was a back door. We walked out into a grassy area behind the PMO complex. The woman followed a cement walk and stopped at a door leading into an unmarked Quonset hut.
“I don’t have the key,” she told us.
Ernie eased her out of the way, took a step back, and then lunged forward with all his strength. The sole of his low quarters hit the front of the door near the knob and the door groaned but didn’t break.
The secretary stepped back farther, holding both hands over her mouth.
I took the next try. A side kick. It landed flush in the center of the door, which crashed open and slammed into the wall behind it. Ernie and I walked in. The secretary scurried back to her office.
When Colonel Alcott stepped through the broken front door of his quarters, he was flanked by two MP escorts. Ernie and I sat in comfortable lounge chairs, our .45s out, both of them aimed at the colonel and his bodyguards.
“Take your weapons out of their holsters, slow and easy, and place them on the floor in front of you,” Ernie said.
The MPs did as they were told.
“Now,” Ernie said. “Step into that closet over there and close the door behind you.”
Outside, we heard shouting, screaming, and the occasional teargas canister being popped into the air. Apparently, the KNPs had regrouped and charged the protestors who had broken through the main gate. However, there were fewer than a hundred KNPs and only four or five dozen MPs versus maybe two thousand protestors. The battle raged on.
“Over here,” Ernie told Colonel Alcott. He motioned with his .45. Colonel Alcott, his face red with rage, did as he was told. He stepped past his bed into the lounge area, past a color television set and stereo equipment on specially made shelves and past a stand-up bar with two stools. When he reached the safe, Ernie told him to stop.
Ernie slipped Colonel Alcott’s .45 from its holster and
handed it to me. I took out the magazine, dropped it into my pocket, and placed the weapon atop the safe. I also picked up the weapons of the two MPs and performed the same ritual.
Then Ernie pulled back the slide on his own .45 and stuck the muzzle into Lieutenant Colonel Stanley X. Alcott’s ear.
“Open it,” Ernie growled.
Colonel Alcott dropped to his knees and started fiddling with the combination.
We weren’t worried about a search warrant.
If we’d gone back to 8th Army and asked for one, the provost marshal would’ve either denied the request immediately or he would’ve passed it to the 8th Army chief of staff and, if the request wasn’t killed there, it would be passed on to the 8th Army JAG, where the entire idea of searching the quarters of a field-grade officer would be endlessly debated. Even if the request was finally approved, there would so much gossip around headquarters that the division commander and members of his staff would hear about it. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say, and Colonel Alcott would have plenty of time to destroy, or hide, any incriminating information he might have in his safe. This is the way the game is played in the military. If you’re a peon, you never hear what headquarters is planning. You’re squashed before you know what hit you. If you’re a field grade officer and a player, someone will spill the information to someone at happy hour at the 8th Army Officers’ Club and the word will get back to you. You’ll have time to take steps to ensure nothing untoward is revealed. Why does the 8th Army commander put up with this? He doesn’t always. Sometime he wants everything kept secret, and he makes damn sure that it stays secret. But other times it’s much less embarrassing to his command if the alleged evildoers are warned in advance. The bad behavior stops, and the command’s reputation remains unsullied.
It was true that anything Ernie and I found in the safe would be unusable in a formal prosecution but we knew there was no way we’d ever be able to obtain anything from that safe that would be so usable. Certainly not by requesting a search warrant.
