“Not yet,” I said.
Pandemonium had broken out and then subsided, and by now the snack bar was virtually empty. Slowly, Ernie stood up, slipped on his jacket, and said, “After you, maestro.” I nodded in thanks. He walked and I hobbled up the hill toward the 8th Army Criminal Investigation Detachment. Riley was waiting for us.
“Where the hell you guys been?”
We were on night guard duty again, patrolling the shadowy perimeter of the 8th United States Army Headquarters South (Provisional). At least that’s what the hand-painted sign above the main entrance said. What we were really patrolling was three or four acres of jumbled canvas tents in a punchbowl of mud. If we had elephants and tigers, we’d be a circus. We already had the clowns.
One of them emerged from the darkness, stepped beneath the glow of a yellow bulb dangling from a wire, and approached us as we made our rounds.
“Look lively there,” he growled. “Don’t stand around like a bunch of Marines.”
It was Staff Sergeant Riley. He had his M-16 rifle slung over his shoulder. He was wearing baggy fatigues, combat boots and a field jacket two sizes too large for his narrow shoulders. His camouflagenetted steel pot sat on his head tilted at an angle.
“Who appointed you king of the guard post?” Ernie asked.
“Somebody’s gotta make sure you pukes maintain the integrity of the perimeter.”
“Maintain the integrity of this,” Ernie replied, showing Riley his favorite finger.
We were tired. It was 8th Army’s second day in the field, and we’d been out walking guard duty all last night and tonight since evening chow. It was almost midnight.
“You’re supposed to be spread out,” Riley said. “Not standing around shooting the shit.”
“We already chased away all the Commies,” Ernie said. “They’re sixty miles north of here up on the other side of the DMZ.”
Eighth Army’s field headquarters was set up in this rural area about thirty-five kilometers south of the city limits of Seoul. Theoretically, on this side of the Han River, we’d be less vulnerable to an initial North Korean assault-if the Communist regime up north ever actually decided to invade. Once our brave forces repulsed them-and no one thought we wouldn’t-we were still close enough to Seoul to return to Yongsan Compound and continue normal operations.
“What about infiltrators?” Riley asked.
“What about ’em?”
“North Korean commandoes can sneak across the DMZ and attack our positions at any time.”
“Hey, Riley,” Ernie said, “this is not a real war, okay? We’re not in ’Nam anymore. All this is make-believe and as soon as the brass has had enough of playing tin soldier we’ll be allowed to pack up and go home.”
And maybe I’d be able to continue my investigation, I thought, but I knew better than to say anything to Riley, especially about the secret claims file. For now, we had to keep our suspicions to ourselves. If I told Riley, he’d tell the Provost Marshal. Maybe the PM didn’t know about it-he probably didn’t-and maybe he wouldn’t take any action to thwart our plans if he did find out. Maybe. But I couldn’t take that chance. I had to see that file without 8th Army’s knowledge. I couldn’t take the chance they would see the death of Mr. Barretsford and even the murder of Corporal Collingsworth as the acceptable price of keeping their secrets.
In the mess tent yesterday, Ernie’d found out from Strange that the file we were looking for was called the Bogus Claims Register, and it was held in the classified file cabinet of the Status of Forces Committee’s Secretariat. We knew where their offices were, not far from the 8th Army headquarters building itself, and Strange said the files were locked in secure cabinets in the Secretary’s office, which in turn was locked behind an iron-barred door. And of course, the entire complex was protected at all hours of night and day by armed guards. That was all Strange would tell Ernie.
Staff Sergeant Riley was about to open his mouth and point out another defect in our military bearing when footsteps tromped through mud.
An MP approached, wearing the same fatigues and steel pot we were, his M-16 slung over his left shoulder. He was a big man, and I thought I recognized his silhouette. As he came closer, moonlight shone in his face. Moe Dexter, freed now from his brief incarceration and cleared by the Provost Marshal of any charges stemming from the vandalizing of the pochang macha or threatening the use of a firearm against us. He’d been warned to watch his conduct, but all punishment was withheld, and he was returned to full duty.
“Well,” Ernie said, bristling, “look who got a clean bill of health from his parole board.”
“Better than having the creeping crud like you, Bascom.”
“At least I don’t stick it to my asshole buddies,” Ernie replied.
I thought the two men were about to come to blows, but Dexter stopped his advance, stared hard at Ernie for a moment, and turned and aimed his gaze at me. “You better get your butt in gear, Sweeno, and take this asshole with you.”
“I only see one asshole around here, Dexter,” I said.
“We’ll see about that once you’re finished with this little detail. The Provost Marshal is screaming for you two back in the Command tent.”
“What happened?”
Dexter pointed to a hill that loomed on the opposite side of the valley. “There’s a signal truck up there.”
In the dim moonlight, I could just make out the shape of a boxy truck holding up an antenna.
“Yeah?” I said.
“And apparently while you guys have been standing around with your thumbs up your butts, our signal troops have been having themselves a party, brought in a girl and everything.”
Outside the perimeter fence, from dawn until well after dark, enterprising farm families had set up wooden stands selling fruit and bottled soda and ramyon packaged noodles and half-liter bottles of soju. GIs weren’t allowed to leave the concertina wire that surrounded the compound but somehow transactions were made. In addition to the innocent stuff, at night some pimps and mama-sans brought in girls. They were mostly hidden out in the weeds, waiting for GIs to sneak through the wire or, if they were authorized to drive out of 8th Army bivouac area on a supply run, to stop beside the road.
Riley squinted at the moonlit hill. “Up there?” he asked.
“Whaddid I stutter? The Provost Marshal wants Sweeno and Bass Comb to investigate, immediately if not sooner.”
Ernie rolled his eyes but started to march toward the Command tent. I pointed at Riley and Dexter. “You two,” I said, “are now officially on guard duty.”
“I can’t do that,” Riley sputtered.
“Yes you can,” I replied. “The perimeter is yours.”
Without waiting for further argument, I turned and trotted away.
Rain had held off all evening, but as if to punish us for our sins, it started up just as we were ready to leave the perimeter of 8th Army Headquarters South. The dirt road to the signal truck was extremely steep and difficult to drive under the best of conditions, but now it was much too slippery. We had no choice but to hump it up the hill.
“Did you bring a rain parka?” Ernie asked.
“Naw, it’s still in my duffel bag. Didn’t think we’d need it.”
“Me neither.”
The rain soaked my fatigue jacket and pant legs. Water trickled off my steel pot and dribbled down the back of my neck. The mud, meanwhile, sloshed over the top of my boots. After a half hour of steady climbing, we were three-quarters of the way up the hill. We stopped for a breather.
Below, the canvas tents that looked so buoyant in the afternoon breeze were now weighted down by the rain and looked like a field of soggy mushrooms. A few lamps flickered here and there but for the most part 8th Army headquarters was fast asleep.
“How did they get the girl up here?” Ernie asked.