No unit in the States could get away with running past a residential area and making that much noise. The civilians would complain. In Korea, the local populace doesn’t even think about complaining. Who would they complain to? The military dictatorship that runs the country? The local police who take orders from that dictatorship? The Commander of Camp Pelham? All futile. Instead, they put up with the shouting and the pounding of feet and when the sound fades away they roll over and go back to sleep.
When the last battery exited Camp Pelham, it made its way, like the others, down the main drag of Sonyu-ri. About two hundred yards on the other end of the strip, another unit emerged from the compound called RC-4, Recreation Center Four. In addition to their regular sweatpants and sweatshirts, each member of this unit wore a red pullover cap. The lead runner carried a guidon, a pennant fluttering atop a pole that identified them as combat engineers. As the two units approached each other they both started the same chant, even louder than the chants before: “On your left! On your left! Sick call! Sick call!”
The ultimate insult. Instead of doing your job, you spend your time running to the dispensary, claiming to be one of the “sick, lame, and lazy.”
The units passed each other, trading barbs and descriptive hand gestures, and continued on their runs. I strode to the Camp Pelham gate. An American MP stared at me with a bored expression. I flashed my identification and passed through the narrow pedestrian entrance. A few yards inside, I found our jeep still parked in front of the Battalion Ops Center. I sat in the passenger seat, crossing my arms across my chest for warmth, waiting for Ernie. About half an hour later, the snack stand across the street opened for business. I bought a Styrofoam cup filled with acidic coffee and a cinnamon roll made of dough that had the consistency of chewing gum. Still, the breakfast warmed me and filled my empty stomach.
I thought of the woman I’d spent the night with. Already, I could hardly remember her face. What I did remember is how deferential the landlady had been to her because she’d landed a customer. She brought us a metal pan of hot water and hand towels and soap and asked us to play the radio low so we wouldn’t disturb the children sleeping in the hooch next door. The landlady bowed to her when she brought the pan of hot water and called her “ajjima.” Aunt. It may sound crazy but I thought I’d helped the old business girl in more ways than one. I’d given her money, of course, which she clearly needed, and maybe just as importantly I’d given her face. It may not seem like much but in a lifetime filled with hardship and a constant gnawing sense of desperation, it’s something.
Ernie always told me I was a nut case. “You can’t save the whole freaking world,” he used to tell me. I knew he was right but that didn’t make things any easier.
I was about to purchase another cup of coffee when Ernie showed up, right at zero eight hundred like he’d promised. He jumped behind the steering wheel and started the engine.
“You get your ashes hauled last night?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“Okay,” he said. “Be that way.”
He backed the jeep out into the battalion street, jammed the gearshift into first, and a few seconds later we were outside the main gate of Camp Pelhem. Across the street stood a boxy whitewashed building with the flag of the Republic of Korea fluttering in front.
“Pull over,” I said.
“Why?” Ernie asked.
“I want to talk to them. They might have something for us.”
He groaned but pulled over and came to a screeching halt.
I climbed out of the jeep and walked into the Sonyu-ri Korean National Police Station. Once the desk sergeant saw my badge, he became cooperative. I asked him if there’d been any incidents involving GIs this weekend, particularly on Sunday afternoon or evening. He thumbed through a ledger and finally pointed to an entry written in the neat hangul script. He read it to me. I occasionally slowed him down while I translated and made notes. When we were through, I thanked him and asked if there’d been anything else.
Nothing, he replied, other than that one incident. It had been a quiet night. I thanked him and returned to the jeep.
“What’d they have?” Ernie asked.
“GIs ripping off a cab driver.”
Ernie grunted. “So what else is new?”
“Apparently they were local GIs,” I said. “They had the driver let them off in the middle of the Sonyu-ri strip and then they ran into the alleyways, disappearing before the driver could catch them.”
“They knew their way around.”
“Right. The driver was from Seoul,” I said. “Picked them up in Itaewon.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re our boys,” Ernie said.
“No,” I agreed. “It doesn’t. All three of them were Caucasian. At least the driver thought they were.” Sometimes Koreans aren’t so sure about race. For many of them there are only two races. You’re either Korean or you’re not.
“Descriptions?” Ernie asked.
“Big. Wearing blue jeans and sneakers and nylon jackets. They smoked a lot and were very noisy.”
“That narrows it down.”
“Right.”
Ernie shoved the jeep in gear and we pulled away from the police station and started rolling through the main drag of Sonyu-ri. At the Kit Kat Club Ernie downshifted, gunned the engine, and honked his horn. The front door was open. Through a beaded curtain, three pairs of manicured hands waved gaily, brightly colored bracelets dangling from slender wrists.
Ernie grinned and waved back. “My fan club,” he said.
And then we were on the Main Supply Route, heading south toward Seoul. I shivered and wrapped my arms tighter across my heart, sheltering myself as best I could from the cold wind of the Western Corridor.
When we returned to the 8th Army CID office, Miss Kim looked up from her typewriter and smiled. Staff Sergeant Riley was just finishing up a phone call.
“All right,” he said. “Got it.” He slammed down the receiver and looked up at us. “You’re here,” he said. “Officers’ Wives’ Club. Disturbance. The Provost Marshal wants you two over there immediately, if not sooner.”
“A disturbance at the OWC?” Ernie said.
“That’s right.”
“What happened? Somebody stole the knitting fund?”
“I don’t know what the hell happened,” Riley growled. “Other than that the MP patrol says there’s an ambulance sitting outside and Mrs. Wrypointe is hysterical. Now get the hell over there.”
Ernie set his empty coffee cup on the edge of Riley’s desk and we ran outside toward the jeep.
MP Sergeant Unsworth stood next to his MP jeep in front of the big green Quonset hut set aside for the Officers’ Wives’ Club. A green army ambulance was parked behind him. Both Ernie and I have worked with Unsworth before. He’s a grown man and a responsible adult and a hell of a good Military Policeman, so seeing tears welling up in his eyes was downright terrifying. Ernie and I strode up to him.
“What the hell happened?” Ernie asked.
Unsworth jammed his thumb over his should. “Mrs. Wrypointe. I just can’t talk to her.”
His hand was shaking.
“Why?” Ernie asked. “She hurt?”
“No,” he answered. “I mean, yes. She says she is.” The tears were already running down his face. “She threatened me,” he said. “With what?” I asked.