He crashed into the two men holding Ortfield’s bags and knocked them back into the arms of onlookers. A great roar went up from the crowd. Ernie tossed the bags to Ortfield and started shoving him forward, toward the boarding gate twenty yards away.
The woman with the megaphone shrieked.
I’m not sure what she said. Something about the life of a Korean woman. But whatever it was, it was enough. The crowd surged forward, me with it, and Ernie and Ortfield were enveloped by a sea of bodies.
Ortfield cursed and threw a punch, and Ernie jostled with three schoolgirls, and then they were down and there was more screaming and in the distance I heard the whistle of a policeman but I knew they wouldn’t be able to make it through the melee.
So far, I had been left mostly alone, with nothing more happening to me than hands pushing on my back as everyone shoved forward to see what was happening. Shuffling sideways through the surging crowd, I made my way toward the platform. The woman atop it was still screaming through the small megaphone. Now I could understand her.
“Chukkijima!” Don’t kill them.
It didn’t seem that anyone was listening.
I climbed up on the platform. She looked up at me, ready to swat me with the bullhorn. I bowed slightly.
“I want to speak to the people,” I said.
She hesitated.
“Please,” I said “I know why you are here. I know what needs to be done.”
She gazed into my eyes. Maybe it was desperation she saw there. Maybe it was the fact that she knew she’d already lost control of the crowd. Reluctantly she handed me the megaphone.
Ernie had wrapped both arms around the duffel bag, like Ish-mael clinging to Queequeg’s coffin, and twisted and pushed his way through the crowd. Ortfield tried to fight, but half-a-dozen men had hold of him, one of them with a firm grip on his hair, yanking his head back. If someone had a knife, they could’ve sliced his neck clean.
Schoolgirls stepped out of the crowd, screaming curses at Ortfield. Some of them spit. Some of them threw weak punches.
In the distance a small group of policemen struggled forward at the edge of the crowd, blowing their whistles, making little headway. No one made a path for them.
I spoke into the megaphone, keeping my voice as calm as I could. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?”
I used English. I wanted them to know that an American was speaking. Many heads looked up. I continued speaking soothing words. A murmur ran through the crowd and soon they started to quiet, like a sea calming after a storm. Finally, the only people struggling were Ernie and Ortfield.
I pulled the megaphone away from my mouth and hissed toward Ernie. “Don’t let him move forward, Ernie. Hold him where he is.”
All eyes were on me. Patient. Expectant. A class waiting for a schoolteacher to begin a presentation. Even the police were quiet. I knew what I had to do. I should’ve done it a long time ago. I pointed to Ortfield. This time I spoke Korean.
“Our young soldier is distraught. He has brought great shame upon himself and his family. They will wonder why he was sent home from the army so early and why none of his officers have anything good to say about him.”
I looked at him, shaking my head, a pitying expression.
“But he has little education. See how he acts when you have been so kind to wait for him here. To give him a chance to do the right thing.”
I covered the mouthpiece of the megaphone with my hand.
“Ernie! Take him in front of the shrine.”
Ortfield looked up at me, nervous and afraid. Ernie wasn’t sure what I was up to but we’ve been partners long enough for him not to question me. He grabbed Ortfield by the arm and when he pulled away, he twisted his wrist behind his back and shoved him forward in front of the flowers and the huge photograph of Choi Un-suk.
This time the crowd made way.
I spoke into the megaphone again, praying that Ernie would know what to do.
“We Eighth Army soldiers, we Americans, we who are responsible for Ortfield,” I said, “daedanhi choesong-hamnida.” We are terribly sorry.
Right on cue, Ernie grabbed the back of Ortfield’s head and forced it down. He struggled-choking, bent forward at the waist-but Ernie held him there for almost half a minute. I bowed at the same time.
Choe Un-suk’s mother began to cry. Handkerchiefs fluttered in the trembling fingers of the elderly ladies. While Ortfield was down, the schoolgirls, Un-suk’s classmates, bowed too, and the adults joined in, and like the ocean when the tide goes out, the crowd lowered.
When they rose again, there was much embracing and everyone turned their backs on Ortfield and Ernie and me.
I handed the megaphone to the sad-faced aunt, climbed off the platform, and as quietly as I could, pulled Ernie and Ortfield toward the departure gate.
When we arrived back at the CID office, Riley pulled a pencil from behind his ear and peered at us over the mountain of paperwork.
“ ’Bout time you guys got back. What the hell took you so long?”
“We had a couple of delays.”
His eyes narrowed. “Goofing off again, eh?”
Ernie ignored him, sauntered over to the coffee urn, and poured himself the dregs of the day’s java.
I stood in front of Riley’s desk, studying him, wondering how much he’d understand. Wondering how much the army would understand. The explanation would be long and hard, and in the end it would be meaningless to them. No sense even starting.
I took of my coat and hung it on the gray metal rack. “Yeah, Sarge,” I said. “You caught us. Goofing off again.”
He nodded, grunted, and looked back down at his paperwork.
All was right with the world.
PAYDAY
The wrinkled sergeant cursed as he held the handkerchief to the knot on his head. Blood seeped through the white linen and trickled down his wrist.
“They were inside the jeep and pounding me before I could pull my weapon.” An army-issue.45 was still holstered and buckled to his canvas web belt. “I don’t know why she stopped. Probably just wanted to give them a ride.”
Ernie and I were standing in the big black-top bus parking area next to the two-story red brick building that housed 8th Army Finance.
Ernie paced back and forth, watching the bleeding staff sergeant, studying him. “Let me get this straight, Holtbaker. You and this second lieutenant Burcshoff pick up the Aviation Detachment payroll here at Finance, you load the briefcase full of money into the jeep, you start to drive off, and she stops to pick up a couple of guys standing on the curb?”
“They waved us down.”
“Then they jump in the jeep,” Ernie continued, “club you on the head, shove you onto the sidewalk, and drive off with the jeep and the money and Second Lieutenant Burcshoff.”
Holtbaker nodded. Blood puddled in the cuff of his green shirt.
“Did she put up any sort of a fight?” I asked.
“Yeah. I think she went for the pearl-handled pistol she carried, something passed down from her old man, she told me, a retired colonel. But these guys were ready. She didn’t have a chance.”
The sergeant described them. One tall and blond, the other average height, brown hair. The blond guy was somewhat thin. The brown-haired guy was average weight. No distinguishing characteristics. They were both wearing sneakers, blue jeans, and nylon jackets-what every off-duty GI in the country wears.
A typically miserable description from a witness.
“When they made their getaway,” Ernie asked, “who drove? Second Lieutenant Burcshoff or one of the hijackers?”
“How the hell should I know? By then I was facedown on the sidewalk.”