“It ain’t easy keeping Eighth Army half loaded,” Ernie said.
He was right about the consumption. Not only did the Central Locker Fund have over 50,000 soldiers, sailors, and airmen to provide beer and liquor for, but they also had about 20,000 dependents and Department of the Army Civilians (DACs) to worry about. And that might’ve been just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Ernie and I both knew that a lot of the beer and booze that the Central Locker Fund provided, if not most of it, ended up on the Korean black market. Imported liquor was extremely popular in Korea, but the Korean government, in order to protect its own fledgling industries, imposed high customs duties on all imported goods, especially luxury items. The US military shipped everything over for free, with no customs duties. As a result, a GI-or more likely his Korean wife-could sell a bottle of imported scotch on the Korean black market for three or four times what they paid for it.
A Korean woman wearing a white blouse and black skirt stood in front of us, both hands placed primly in front of her, fingers pointing downward. She bowed and asked if she could help. I flashed my badge and told her who we wanted to speak to. She bowed again and led us toward a glass-enclosed office against the far wall.
Inside, at a desk larger than those in the main work area, a figure sat in what appeared to be solemn meditation. A dapper man, he wore a suit and had brushed-back brown hair greying at the temples. Rick Mills was somewhat of a legend in 8th Army. It was said that he’d been a mess sergeant in the Korean War who’d been put in charge of setting up the Class VI stores-the branch of the post exchange that sold liquor and beer-from one end of the Korean peninsula to the other. He’d done such a good job and his work was appreciated by so many high-ranking officers that when he retired from the military he’d been given the same job, running the Central Locker Fund, as a Department of the Army Civilian. He’d held the job ever since, for more than twenty years. In military life this was common. You build relationships while on active duty and then parlay them into a lifetime job. Rick Mills had become an institution at 8th Army. Some said he was into illicit activities and more than once a zealous provost marshal had tried to bust him, but Rick Mills had always come through any investigation unscathed. Most recently, in the audit performed by our colleagues, Burrows and Slabem, Rick Mills and the 8th Army Central Locker Fund had been shown to be efficiently run and in full compliance with all pertinent regulations.
Maybe.
He stood as we approached. I flashed my badge and explained why we were here. Rick Mills studied us briefly, shook our hands, and then asked us to have a seat. Unbidden, the same Korean lady who’d ushered us in appeared expectantly at the door.
“Coffee,” Rick Mills asked, “or something else to drink?”
“A case of scotch would be nice,” Ernie said.
I overrode him. “No, nothing, thank you.”
Rick Mills turned to the lady. “Thank you, Miss Jo, nothing today.” She bowed and backed out of the room. He turned to us.
“It’s about malt liquor,” I explained.
His eyes widened.
“How much of it do you import?” I asked.
Rick Mills seemed surprised by the question. “Malt liquor? Why, none.”
“None?” Ernie asked.
Rick Mills turned to him. “Yes. We don’t get much call for it.”
“But the black troops,” Ernie replied. “Colt 45. And what’s that other one?” He snapped his fingers.
“Jazz City Ale?” Rick Mills said.
“Yes. The green death.”
“That’s what they call it.”
“So why don’t you ship it over if the black troops like it?”
Rick Mills looked down at the desk blotter in front of him, as if searching for an answer. I noticed that behind him, neatly arranged on a polished mahogany shelf, were a series of framed photographs. One showed a much younger Rick Mills in uniform, standing with a group of fellow GIs in front of a jeep. All were smiling and laughing. The rest of the photos were more formal, with Rick Mills standing with one general or another, receiving a plaque or some kind of award. There were close to a dozen of them. Providing booze to the troops can be a rewarding career.
“It’s been decided,” Mills said, “that the alcohol content in malt liquor is too high. For the health and welfare of the troops, we don’t order it.”
“The alcohol content in liquor is even higher,” Ernie said. Mills didn’t answer. Ernie went on. “It’s because the black troops like it,” he said. “They like the fact that it gives them a quick kick and they don’t have the bloated feeling they get from beer. It’s a ghetto thing. You don’t want them drinking the same shit they drank back on the block.”
Mills looked up at Ernie. “It’s not me.”
“The command,” Ernie said.
Mills shrugged.
“And for the same reason,” Ernie said, “you don’t order cheap wine, like T-Bird or Bali Hai. Only the expensive stuff, for the officers.”
“Trade-offs are made,” Mills said. “We can’t order everything.”
Finally, Ernie shut his mouth. I was glad he did. No sense blaming Mills for the priorities that 8th Army demanded. In the military, it was the highest-ranking officers who made the decisions that affected the rest of us in every aspect of our lives. Invariably, they made them according to their own likes and dislikes. The likes and dislikes of the black troops, as far as I could tell, were not even considered.
Ernie leaned back in his chair. It was my turn.
“If a person wanted to get ahold of malt liquor,” I asked, “how would he do it?”
Mills slid his fingertips across the smooth white paper of the blotter.
“What type of malt liquor?”
“Does it matter?”
“No. Not really. If you ordered it directly, you’d not only pay a small fortune in transport costs, but also be hit hard by Korean customs duties.” He was silent for a moment and then he said, “The merchant marine, in the Port of Inchon or the Port of Pusan. It wouldn’t be easy, but occasionally a Korean guard at the port can be bribed to look the other way. You could bring in a shipment that way.”
“It would still be expensive. The payoffs would be almost as big as the customs duties.”
Mills shrugged again. “I imagine.”
“Any other way?” Ernie asked.
Mills seemed to have gotten fed up. He stared at Ernie steadily. “Are you implying something?”
“If anyone knows how to import alcoholic beverages into Korea, it would be you.”
“Our record is clean,” Mills told him. “Nothing through here without it being logged in and logged out.”
Miss Jo entered Mills’s office. Her face was slightly flushed but still she placed her hands in front of her again and bowed. She apologized profusely and said, “There’s been an accident.”
Mills rose to his feet and bolted out the door. We followed. On the way to the warehouse I noticed the signs that said: anchon cheil. Safety first.
The reek of booze hit us like a fist. One of the forklifts at the huge main entrance to the warehouse had apparently collided with a green army pickup. The front end of the truck had been dented and the forklift was wedged against the fender at an almost forty-five-degree angle. Cases of liquor had crashed to the floor, flooding the smooth cement slab with a small tsunami of spirits.
“Gin,” Ernie said. “Beefeater.”
Leave it to Agent Ernie Bascom to notice the important details.
A Korean man stood next to the forklift clutching a blue cloth. I checked his wound. Bleeding, but not arterial. Two other workmen approached and led him to another vehicle. Rick Mills conferred with them and they sped off, escorting the wounded forklift driver to the local dispensary.
A tall GI in starched fatigues paced next to the pickup truck, back and forth, sliding his green cap across a bald skull. He was about six-foot-one, thin, with the belt of his uniform cinched tightly around a narrow waist. His eyes were large and blue and moist and his name tag simply said Demoray. His rank insignia indicated that he was a master sergeant, one step below the highest enlisted rank.