Interrogator: This is a case that could turn into an international problem. In any event, once the case is publicized the dignity of the US forces, which have been participating in wars around the world to safeguard freedom and justice, will be greatly stained. Consider transferring or sending Ericsson home as soon as possible.
As word of the case might become public, recover the body of the victim immediately to prevent it from being exploited by the enemy for propaganda purposes. If it does become public, make sure that the severity of military discipline is also public knowledge, to demonstrate the far-sighted civilian relations policy of American forces. Let it be known that the American forces respect human life and treat crimes against civilians in the course of combat operations as civilian homicide. Dispatch to Hill 192 an investigation team of CID staff, a photographer, a doctor, a ballistics expert, and a military court advisor. As for Private Ericsson, acknowledge that he has fully completed his duty like a model soldier and have him cited, decorated, and recommended for promotion.
[Corpse found on Hill 192. All parts of decomposing remains collected, body-bagged, and evacuated. Eleven fragments of bullets discovered in vicinity of crime. Found teeth, finger bones, and other bone fragments in grass. Lethal wounds confirmed, as a result of autopsy, to include three punctures with knife in ribs and neck. Cause of partial loss of cranial bones confirmed to be impact of two high-velocity projectiles. Subject of autopsy was female Mongolian aged eighteen to twenty. A silver earring found at the scene of the crime was identified by relatives as belonging to victim Pan Te Miao.]
6
Yong Kyu was sitting at the bar in front of the marine PX. It was in a huge open structure, a roof on top of columns. The bar overlooked heaps of scrap metaclass="underline" rusting tanks, crushed Jeeps, the carcass of a plane fuselage, spent artillery shells, etcetera. Like huge bones of dinosaurs extinct for centuries.
Yong Kyu went into the PX to meet the duty officer and check the types and quantities of the goods to be delivered to the Korean military forces that day. He also had to record the number of Korean soldiers and civilians coming and going and the details of their purchases. After spending the whole morning swimming through the shiny merchandise, Yong Kyu felt light-headed when he went outside, and an overwhelming sense of emptiness.
He’d made a mistake about a week earlier. He had come out of the navy PX and was waiting to catch a bus to the MAC. A US Navy bus that he knew stopped at the MAC headquarters came by. He got on like he always did. The driver put up his hand to stop him.
“You aren’t allowed.”
“I work for the Allied Forces.”
“This bus is for Americans only.”
“We’re part of the same unit.”
“I don’t know that. Now get the hell off.”
Yong Kyu pulled the.38 revolver the sergeant had lent him from his back pocket. He held the muzzle against the bus driver’s freckled cheek.
“We came here because you people asked us to.”
A stir arose among the American sailors and marines on the bus, and a major rose from his seat, saying, “Careful, soldier. We’re all comrades-in-arms.”
“I’m far from home too. Are you not going to let us on the bus? You expect us to go to Hanoi?”
“Right. The driver was wrong. The North Vietnamese are your enemy, too. Come and sit down in this seat.”
Yong Kyu lowered the revolver. Then, suddenly aiming out through the open window, he fired twice at the ground. The report was deafening inside the low-ceilinged bus and the Americans instantly ducked down behind the seats.
“This driver is my enemy!” he had roared before leaping off the bus. From there he walked the entire way along the dusty road. When he had been with his company in some sandbagged hole or crawling in a trench just below the line of fire, he’d forgotten who he was. Now that he had come into the city, had mixed with others and stood in front of strangers, his self had emerged. Yong Kyu was starting to understand, a little too late.
He was up to his neck in mud. He realized he would never make it back home with this rookie naive sentimentalism. He’d have to be a simple draftee in no way responsible for his own participation in this war; he would just finish his stint and go home. The black market was part of the accepted package when Korea decided to join the war. So then scruples meant nothing on his record since his dispatch to Vietnam.
Yong Kyu killed time until the sergeant got there. The Coke on the table in front of him was already getting warm. Drops of sweat kept sliding onto his sunglasses. When on duty at the PX and out of the city, they wore the same jungle fatigue uniform as the Americans. With no sign of rank on the shoulders, no unit insignia and no weapon, his nationality was almost unidentifiable. From a distance he could be mistaken for an American. Closer up, he might be taken for a Vietnamese. But in an American uniform with his height and big, thick-boned frame he looked like a soldier from some third country. Some might think he was a civilian worker or a journalist. It was perfect for blending in with the passing uniforms at the PX. If stating his identity was unavoidable, all he had to do was flash his ID card with its red CID slash.
He took off his sunglasses and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. The greenish shadow cast by the marine PX had dissipated into the scorching white. The pink mountain, enveloped in dust, looked like an overripe mango in the scalding heat. Even the empty cans dangling on the wire fence around the scrap yard seemed crushed by the merciless sun. There was not the slightest breath of a breeze.
Corporal Ahn Yong Kyu sprang to his feet. A beige station wagon was slowly gliding into the parking lot in front of the PX. It had Vietnamese license plates and tinted windows. Yong Kyu walked over at a deliberately slow pace so as to attract their attention. Once the smart and slick-looking car parked at the edge of the lot, it stood out conspicuously against all the neighboring military vehicles.
An obese man in a Hawaiian shirt, white pants, and a wide-brimmed Burmese jungle helmet got out. He was chewing gum, his jaws slowly grinding. As though he had been watching Yong Kyu from inside, he headed straight over to him. His partially unbuttoned shirt revealed most of his chest. He scowled at Yong Kyu and said, “Are you Corporal Ahn?”
Yong Kyu nodded. The man held out his hand.
“Glad to meet you. Name’s Oh. Took some time to change tires. . I’m a little late, huh?”
“The sergeant?”
“There’s a mahjong game going on back at my house. . where are the goods?”
Yong Kyu turned around and walked toward the warehouse behind the PX. The man followed.
“Electric fans and refrigerators, right?” said Mr. Oh, looking down at a crumpled piece of paper he had taken from his pocket. Yong Kyu had no idea what sort of transaction this was. He didn’t know if the man was a soldier or a civilian, nor did he know the location of the house where the sergeant was playing mahjong. He had just been given an order that morning before leaving for PX duty.
A vehicle from the brigade headquarters PX would be arriving between 1230 and 1300 to pick up some goods, he’d been told. When a fat man showed up in a station wagon, he was supposed to lead him to the chief of the Korean army PX, load the goods in the car and then help him pass through the three checkpoints on the way into the city.
The staff sergeant, while lying in bed and gorging himself on the restaurant food he’d brought into the barracks, had threatened Yong Kyu:
“Blue Jacket Kang did favors for me. When you head out into the marketplace, you’ll practically be running around in the palm of my hand. A single report from me and you’ll be hustled back home and straight into the stockade.”