This American corporal was a typical white with brown hair and lots of freckles. It wasn’t easy for Yong Kyu to make deals with Blacks. If the counterpart in a transaction was a black soldier, there were two things to watch out for: he might turn out to be unreliable, and also there could be a breakdown in cooperation on the other side; if the senior American was black, white soldiers often refused to join in on the deal.
The soldiers in the convoy parked their vehicles along the docks and headed off for the mess hall. While they were having lunch, the documents would be processed and the loading would commence in the early afternoon. Yong Kyu walked over toward the warehouse. Each block unit of the warehouse contained twenty warehouses, enormous corrugated metal Quonsets lined up in straight rows, each the size of an auditorium. Above each dock door was posted the kind and quantity of the goods stored inside. Forklifts were busy moving back and forth, and container trucks were constantly going in and out from the offloading docks on the other side of the warehouses. On the piers in front of the Quonsets, American soldiers in running shirts or stripped to the waist were breaking out cartons or jockeying packages inside with pallet jacks.
Yong Kyu loitered about looking for the corporal. Nobody paid him any attention. His uniform was exactly like their own, except that his sunglasses and openly displayed pistol made them take him for an officer. At last Yong Kyu spotted the corporal sitting at a desk inside one of the Quonsets. He was in a sleeveless shirt and drinking a Coke.
“How are you? Hot out.”
The corporal threw a quick glance his way. “Who are you?”
Yong Kyu tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m Sergeant Ahn, forgot me already? I was here two days ago.”
The corporal whistled, shaking his head. “Hey, that whiskey you laid on me was a real hit. The guys in our barracks got loaded.”
On his last visit Yong Kyu had given him three bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label. One right word to the soldier in charge of requisitions would easily get you three boxes of coffee for free. But Yong Kyu had purposely given him whiskey, which was forbidden to soldiers below the rank of sergeant.
“Thanks for the coffee you gave me last time, my friends said it ought to be enough to last for a few years.”
The corporal got up and went over to the icebox in the corner. “Care for a cold drink?”
“No, thanks. I’m all right.”
“How about a beer?”
“I’m on duty.”
Nevertheless the corporal came back over with a can of beer.
“Officers? My ass. Don’t worry, fighting the heat is also a war, y’know.”
Yong Kyu lounged on the desk, stretching his legs side by side with the corporal.
“You’re not a career soldier, huh?”
“Nope, they dragged me out here. My motorcycle is rusting back home when I should be out riding flat track races. Well, only six months left in my hitch now.”
“Corporal, I only know your rank. What’s your name?”
“Leonardo, but they just call me Leon. I’m from Chicago. You know Chicago? A big city.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it, Leon. Your name sounds Italian.”
“Same as the old man who painted the Mona Lisa. My grandfather emigrated to America. I’ve never been to Italy.”
“I like it.”
“Like what?”
“The Italian name. It goes with Chicago. We hear lots of stories about the gangsters, from the movies.”
“We’ve got one in the family. A Mafia man.”
Yong Kyu crushed the empty can and tossed it over the desk into the wastebasket. “How’s the duty going?”
“Here?” Leon stuck his tongue halfway out.
“I’m sick and tired of it. I’d rather be in a combat unit. Time passes too slowly here.”
“Do you know why I came to Vietnam?”
“No. Hell, I don’t even know why I came here. Shit, OK, why did you come?”
Yong Kyu removed his sunglasses.
“I came because you people called. That’s why.”
“I didn’t call you. I got drunk one weekend, and when I woke up on Monday I found an enlistment notice in my mailbox. So off I go to basic training.”
“What’re you going to do when you go home and get discharged?”
“Well, first I guess I’ll ride my motorcycle as much as I want. Then I’ll make some money.”
“Can you get out of here on off-duty days?”
“Not easy to go all the way downtown. Just outside the camp around here, sometimes.”
“Good, let’s go to China Beach sometime.”
“Sure, easy to get there.”
“Leon, you got any fruit salad in here? My boss is crazy about that junk. First thing he eats in the morning. So I came over to see if I could get some.”
The corporal quickly got up, saying, “Come with me, I’ll give you a couple of boxes.”
Two boxes would mean twenty-four cans. Leon walked through the maze of the warehouse until he reached a certain spot where he started lifting cartons to check their labels. The whole area was filled with cartons of various canned fruits. He lifted up one box and put it on his shoulder, pointing with his finger at another.
“There, take that one yourself.”
They each brought out a box and set them down on the desk at the entrance. Yong Kyu took out a ten-dollar military certificate and held it out to Leon, who looked confused.
“What’s this?”
“Don’t you recognize it? It’s money. I don’t have anything in exchange this time. Just take it.”
“That’s a ten, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, be a big spender when you go out on R & R.”
“Want some more fruit salad?”
“No, this is enough. By the way, how about coming downtown with me next weekend?”
“Downtown is off-limits for us. We get stopped at the checkpoint on the outskirts of the city.”
“That’s OK, I’ll come and pick you up. You just get a leave pass.”
Leon whistled again. “That’s great. Downtown, huh? Who the hell are you anyway?”
“I’m Westy’s old man.”
The corporal cackled until his faced turned red. Yong Kyu, the father of the commander of the American forces. Yong Kyu loaded the boxes on the truck and the driver drove out from the Turen supply warehouse. The driver laughed and said the whole thing seemed absurd.
“And for just this, two measly boxes, you asked for a truck to come all the way here?”
“I was just dipping a toe in. Let me cover your pocket money for today.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Yong Kyu had the truck stop in front of the Bamboo Club. He unloaded the boxes and left them with a vendor on the street. He said to the driver, “Tell Sergeant Yun I said thanks. I’ll be dropping by next week.”
It happened to be lunch hour and inside the Bamboo he found Vietnamese civilians sitting around sipping drinks. They appeared to be merchants or bureaucrats. During the day the patrons were mostly Vietnamese, but at night it was mostly Western soldiers. Toi was at a table in the corner. Sitting beside him was an oily-haired middle-aged man in a white shirt.
“Did you cut a deal?” asked Toi.
“Who’s this?” Yong Kyu asked, glancing at the other man.
“Major Pham sent him. I met him for the first time today.”
“He promised to meet me when he gets leave Saturday.”
Toi nodded. “Then we should have the goods in our hands by sometime next week.”
When Toi said something in Vietnamese to the middle-aged man, the latter bowed slightly.