Ernie and I waited outside 8th Army headquarters until Sergeant First Class Ervin left the building for evening chow. When he was two blocks down the road he turned left, heading toward the 8th Army mess hall. We’d already been there to catch some chow ourselves. The usual waitress service was cancelled, and only two cooks manned the shorter-than-normal serving line. But they had a grill turned on, the chow was hot, and the coffee was steaming.
Ernie and I emerged from the bushes and approached the main door of the 8th Army headquarters building, flashing our badges to the two security guards. We were back in civilian clothes, but not the coat and tie normally required. Since there was no one around to keep an eye on us, we’d changed into our running the ville outfits: blue jeans, sneakers, a long-sleeve shirt with collar, and a nylon jacket with fire-breathing dragons embroidered on the back.
Major Woolword sat at his desk watching the Armed Forces Korea Network on a portable television. Some sort of game show, a rerun from about ten years ago. He looked up as we entered. In the corner, the KATUSA driver put down a Korean comic book, looking guilty.
Ernie and I came to the position of attention in front of Major Woolword’s desk and saluted. We knew he liked being treated with respect rather than as the hopeless drunk he really was. Ervin wouldn’t be gone long, so I got right to the point.
“We need the keys, Major, to the Office of the Secretariat, SOFA Committee.”
I knew he was confused by the acronyms but his sagging, wrinkled face tried to look serious. And sober.
“Keys,” he growled. “What for?”
“An investigation, sir,” Ernie said, trying to appear as obsequious as possible, which wasn’t easy for him. “The Chief of Staff sent us to check out some files, and he told us to talk to you personally.”
“Fred? How is the old son of a bitch?”
“Fine, sir. And he speaks very highly of you.”
“He ought to. I pulled his butt out of enough trouble. Did I ever tell you about the fire fight we ran into down near Gongchang-ni?”
We had to find the keys and get what we needed quick, before Ervin came back from chow. Nobody could enter a secure building and take classified files without express written permission. We’d considered coming back at night and actually breaking into the SOFA office, but that would be too risky. Korean security guards periodically patrol the halls at night, and the fact that the files had been stolen would be obvious once 8th Army returned from the field. Better to take them clean. Even copy them if we had time. What we were hoping for was to befuddle Major Woolword’s booze-fogged mind.
I interrupted his reveries. “I’ll find it in the key box myself,” I told him.
“Sure,” Major Woolword said. “Right over there.”
Ernie leaned toward him. “You were in command of an infantry unit, sir?”
“No,” Woolword replied. “Not infantry, a supply unit. But believe-you-me, in those days when the Pusan Perimeter was collapsing all around us, everybody was an infantry soldier.”
“Even the Chief of Staff?”
“You bet. But he got caught with his pants down.” Woolword started to laugh. In short order, his laughter turned to coughing, and he bent over, grabbed a metal trash can, and spit phlegm so hard it sounded like a BB ringing a bell.
I knew where the Staff Duty Officer’s key box was from pulling night duty. The idea was that every set of keys for doors and filing cabinets was numbered and listed in a log book, and a spare copy was kept in the Staff Duty Officer’s key box. That way, in an emergency, authorized personnel could gain access to any nook or cranny in the vast 8th Army headquarters. I opened the door and fumbled through the huge wall-mounted cabinet. Some of the keys were laid on the lowest shelf, not hanging from a peg as they should be. Others were obviously out of place. The box probably hadn’t been inventoried in quite some time. Not reassuring. I scanned the five typed pages of log, found the SOFA Committee, and located a ring of keys on the correct peg. Quickly, I stuffed it into my pocket.
So far so good. I hoped Ervin was a slow eater.
As I walked past Major Woolwoord’s desk, I flashed Ernie the thumbs up sign. He’d keep him talking. I’d try to find the file Strange had called the Bogus Claims Register.
According to Miss Shin, Specialist Ertagglia and Private Hargis hadn’t been interested in the soju, but they’d definitely been interested in her. She smiled and bowed, and they’d let her in, allowed her to sit on one of the stools, and even offered her some of the C-rations they were sharing. Fruit cocktail in a green can, she told me. They had a canvas cot wedged into the back of the van and that’s where she figured she’d end up, but for the moment they were happy to have somebody ooh and aah as they slipped on earphones and dialed knobs and went through their usual communications routine. The boys seemed to be maneuvering about who would be first with Miss Shin, and they hadn’t even worked their way around to offering her money yet when, after she figured twenty minutes had elapsed, she’d opened the door.
“He was different,” she said.
“How so?”
“He seemed taller. Bigger. He stood up so straight. And for the first time I saw the sickle in his hand. He didn’t hesitate. He pushed past me, and swung the sickle first at the dark one.”
“Hargis?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know their names. The GI was surprised, his mouth open when the blade slashed across his throat.” She covered her eyes with her hands.
“Did you scream?”
“I don’t know. I think so. So did the other GI, the white one. He tried to reach for something, something behind the blinking equipment, but his earphones jerked his head back, and he stumbled over one of the stools, and before he could grab whatever he was trying to grab, the man leapt over the dark one and sliced the blade across the white one’s throat.” She covered her eyes again. “I tried not to look. There was blood everywhere, and then he dragged me off the stool and pulled me outside. I fell down the steps. That’s when I hurt my arm.” She cradled her elbow. “I thought he would kill me, too. I kept trying to hide my throat.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No. He knelt beside me.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was calm. Very calm. As if he’d just completed some important job. And he had turned into the kind gentleman again, the one I’d known before, waiting for me to recover from my hysterics.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. I had no choice. I didn’t want him to kill me, too.”
“What did you do?”
“I asked him why he had killed them. He said they deserved it for what they’d done.”
“Did he explain what they’d done?”
“No. He told me he had to leave. He told me to wait there and someone would come. If it was a Korean, I should ask for their help. If it was an American, I should run because they would surely kill me. Then he did an odd thing.”
“What was that?”
“He wiped the blade in the grass and turned the handle of the sickle toward me and offered it to me.”