“They ran over him and killed him. They ran over anything in their path.”
“I saw it, I saw it all. They don’t care what they do to these young people. They don’t care.”
“It’s their fault, the army’s fault. No one would have gotten hurt if they hadn’t attacked.”
I found an opening in the hubbub and shouted my question.
“Did anyone see the American fall?”
There was a silence and then mumbling as they looked around at one another. A trim man with jet black hair and a full-length blue apron stepped forward. I figured him to be about forty.
“I am the florist,” he said. “I saw the American fall. He was with a small group of Korean students, two girls, two boys. I remember them because the American stopped in my shop to buy one of the girls a flower for her hair. When the armored vehicles charged up the lane, spewing water, I ran out of the shop. The American and the girl were right here, along the sidewalk at the curve. One of the vehicles took the curve too sharply and went up over it, and as the students jumped out of the way, I saw the American fall forward, very abruptly, as if he’d been pushed. He landed face first in the gutter. When the armored vehicle dropped back to the road, it landed right on top of him. Everyone was running my way and another vehicle was closing in, so I had to run back into my shop.”
“Did you see who pushed the American?”
“No. I couldn’t. I was too far away, and there were too many people.”
A siren wailed and then got louder as it turned down the lane toward us from the main road a block away. The merchants began to disperse, and when the young officer saw that it was a police car he said goodbye to us and trotted back to his unit. Another police vehicle followed, and khaki-clad men jumped out and began to cordon off the neighborhood with white tape. One of the policemen came toward us.
“May I be of assistance?” he said.
Ernie answered. “We were just leaving.”
We walked up the road to the florist’s shop and went inside. The proprietor braced himself against the counter.
“What type of flower did the American buy?”
“A chrysanthemum.” He went to a vase full of them and caressed the petals. “A foreign flower. But very beautiful. And very expensive this time of year.”
I thanked him and went back to the jeep. Then we drove back to the police station and found a parking space across the street where we could see in through the big front windows. Ernie waited in the jeep while I went in. I spoke to the desk sergeant.
“Did you get any information from the students about the American’s death?”
He nodded. “It appears to have been accidental. From a taxi cab trying to clear the area too quickly. We’re looking for him now. When we find him, we’ll let you know.”
Back outside, I told Ernie what he had said. He snorted. “They don’t want to admit that one of their army vehicles killed an American. It’s an international incident. All hell could break loose.”
“I’d hate to be the cab driver they accuse of hit and run.”
“He’ll be somebody on their shit list.”
I found a pay phone and called the first sergeant.
“Who’s the dead American?”
“A GI.” I gave him the name, service number, and unit.
“What the hell was he doing out there during a demonstration?”
“What else? Trying to make it with one of the coeds.”
I held the phone away from my ear while the first sergeant expressed his opinions. Colorfully. “The meat wagon’s on its way. Make sure they pick up the body and all his personal effects.”
“Sure. It might take awhile. You know how the Koreans are with paperwork.”
“You and Bascom stay away from those demonstrators, you understand me, Sueño? And get back here as soon as the body’s been transferred to our custody.”
“You got it, Top.”
He hung up without even asking how Corporal Ralph Whitcomb had died.
We watched a parade of well-dressed, middle-aged Korean men and women walk into the Sodaemun Police Station. They stood at the front desk, did a lot of bowing, filled out some paperwork, and then, one by one, they were ushered into back rooms.
“Payoff time,” Ernie said.
When they emerged, their young wards were delivered to them and they left the station. Usually the guardian was scowling and the student stared at the ground.
The girl with the chrysanthemum in her hair didn’t have to wait too long. A dapper young Korean man who seemed more like a lawyer than a parent escorted her outside. Clinging to her arm was another college-age girl with short hair and a plain round face. Tagging along behind them were two boys, one of them thin and good-looking with short curly hair, the other slightly stout, wearing glasses. Studious looking.
“That dude liberated a whole pack of them,” Ernie sad. “Must have cost him a bundle.”
“Our young lady of the chrysanthemum has money and plenty of friends.”
“The two go together,” Ernie said.
The three other students said goodbye, and the lawyer and the flower girl climbed into a chauffeured Rekord Royale sedan. He sat in front. She sat in back. I copied the license number on my little notepad, and when they pulled away from the curb, Ernie followed, two car lengths behind in the rushing Seoul traffic.
They turned left at the ancient edifice of the West Gate and traveled northeast toward the heart of Seoul. After about a mile and a half of weaving through traffic, they took a left up a road that wound through a residential area and stopped at a big house on a hill overlooking the downtown business district. Stone walls and iron gates.
“This gal is rich,” Ernie said. “Why does she want to overthrow the system?”
“She’ll change her mind later.”
Autumn is the usual time for demonstrations. School starts up again, and all the students are excited about being reunited with their friends and confident about getting the good grades this year that they didn’t work hard enough for last year. And normally-if the government feels up to it-elections are held in the fall. The opposition parties had been growing stronger the last few years. One of their leaders received international recognition after he fled the country rather than allowing himself to be jailed for the offense of having more popular support than the president. Therefore, the ruling party had taken a wise step. They were going to allow elections, but a certain percentage of the seats in the legislature were going to be reserved exclusively for the ruling party. For some reason the students took umbrage at this and had taken to the streets.
When demonstrations are imminent, there’s usually a reminder in the 8th Army Bulletin about political rallies being off-limits to military personnel. In fact, the only political activity GIs are allowed to participate in is the absentee ballot-if you remember to fill out the postcard and mail it to your home state. Other than that, forget it. And Corporal Ralph Whitcomb had made the foolish mistake of getting himself killed in the midst of an unauthorized activity.
The army doesn’t mind you getting killed charging a machine gun nest-as a matter of fact they sort of like it-but don’t meet the grim reaper at a political rally. That’s frowned upon.
Whitcomb wasn’t worried about it any more. And the only thing that bothered me was not where he died, but how he died. Someone had pushed him into the path of that charging armored vehicle, and I was going to find out who, even if nobody else really wanted to know.
Ernie drifted to a stop and parked out of sight. I jumped out of the jeep and peeked around the corner. The lawyer climbed out of the Rekord Royale, unlocked a metal grating in the stone wall, and rolled it up using a hand crank on the side. Then he got back into the car and they pulled into the narrow garage. The metal grating ground down and clanked shut.