“If you call a couple of witnesses from Charley Battery up at Camp Pelham,” Ernie said, “they could corroborate Sergeant Orgwell’s sexual preferences.” Ernie wrote two names on a sheet of paper and handed it to Conroy. They were amongst the young black troops Ernie had smoked reefer with behind the Charley Battery motor pool.
“I’ll try,” Conroy said.
“If they don’t let you call them, at least get it on record during the trial that you tried to call them. It might be useful in an appeal.”
“So you already think Threets is going to have to appeal this thing,” Conroy said glumly.
“No offense, Lieutenant,” I said, “but you’re inexperienced and they’re giving you virtually no time to prepare a defense. That makes it clear that Eighth Army has decided to wrap this thing up as quickly as possible, and that they’ve already chosen a side.”
“Well,” he said, “Threets did shoot a superior NCO.”
“Yes, but there were extenuating circumstances.”
“Circumstances Eighth Army doesn’t want to talk about.”
Ernie thumbed through the paperwork idly. “Congratulations, L.T. You just summed up the entire case.”
In the jeep on the way back to the barracks, I said to Ernie, “Where do you figure this warehouse is the little kisaeng was talking about?”
“The Far East Compound. Gotta be.”
The only US military base in downtown Seoul was the Far East Materiel and Support Command. Most of the people who worked there were civilians, either Koreans or DACs. It was a small base geographically, but much of the logistics planning that supported the 50,000-plus US troops in Korea and their 50-plus military compounds was conducted at the Far East Materiel and Support Command. That they might have an occasional poker game wasn’t surprising. That they would bring in girls wasn’t too surprising either. All civilians were generously paid, drawing not only with their government paychecks but also the overseas differential and a generous housing allowance. Compared to a GI humping the line along the DMZ, they had money to burn.
“We need to pay a visit to the Far East Compound,” Ernie said.
“Everything’s shut down right now,” I said, “and word will spread too fast if we start asking questions during regular business hours. Whoever’s responsible will cover their tracks.”
“If they haven’t already,” Ernie said. “So when?”
“Tomorrow’s Friday night, the perfect time for a poker game.”
Ernie tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “And the perfect time for me to bust some fat-ass civilians for gambling on compound.”
By noon the next day, Ernie and I were back in Samgakji. There weren’t many GIs out this time of day, and we didn’t expect there to be. Most of them were either working on compound or eating chow at the big 8th Army Dining Facility-better known as the mess hall. But Samgakji was nonetheless bustling at this time of day: housewives carrying plastic baskets on their way to and from the open-air market; old women balancing bundled laundry atop their heads; business girls with dented pans propped against their hips, dressed in T-shirts and shorts, on their way to the bathhouse. In front of the Kit Kat Club, a three-wheeled flatbed truck blocked our way. Bare-chested workmen flipped back dirty canvas, revealing huge one-yard-square blocks of shimmering ice. Resting a towel on his back, one of the workmen pinched a block of ice with huge metal tongs, hoisted it onto his shoulder, and bending forward, lugged it into the Kit Kat Club. After plopping the ice into a stainless-steel sink behind the bar, the workman left and the truck drove off.
Ernie and I approached the barmaid, a young woman we hadn’t seen last night. There were no other customers in the club and she was surprised to see us, but she recovered quickly when I plopped three one-thousand-won notes on the bar. “Colt 45,” I said. “Tu-gei.” Two.
She rummaged around for a set of keys, opened one of the coolers, and pulled two sixteen-ounce cans of Colt 45 out and set them on the bar. Before she opened them, Ernie cupped his hands atop the cans. He crooked his finger, to bring her closer. While he kept her occupied, I ran around behind the bar. Peering into the beer cooler, I noticed two things: the supply of Colt 45 hadn’t been replenished, and there was a strong smell of garlic I hadn’t noticed before lingering inside the stainless-steel compartment. Using my flashlight, I searched for a jar full of kimchi that might explain the aroma, but I didn’t find any. I straightened up and peered at the barmaid. “The Ville Rat hasn’t come yet?”
“Who?” she asked.
“Maeul ui jwi,” I said.
“Moolah,” she said-I don’t know-slightly frightened by our behavior, and by me having the temerity to barge behind the bar.
Ernie slid the two cans back toward her and said, “Ahn mogo.” We don’t want.
I snatched up my three thousand won. As we walked out, the barmaid stared after us, puzzled, but placed the two cans of Colt 45 back into the cooler.
We found places to wait that we hoped would be inconspicuous. Although it was difficult for two American GIs, both of us over six feet tall, to find a way to appear inconspicuous in a Korean neighborhood that, at least for the moment, was bereft of foreigners.
Most of the lanes in Samgakji were narrow affairs, just wide enough for one or two pedestrians to walk abreast. The main drag, the one road navigable by taxicabs or delivery trucks, cut a dogleg through the maze of wooden hooches and one- or two-story brick buildings. It was along this road that the nightclubs and the bars and the chophouses were located, and that’s where we waited. Ernie at the bent knee of the dogleg, beneath an awning in front of a small, open-fronted store selling cigarettes, soft drinks, packaged noodles, wheels of puffed rice, and strings of dried cuttlefish. They also sold ginseng gum, with which he quickly reprovisioned himself.
I decided to keep moving. I was pretty lousy at making myself unnoticeable, so I wandered into and out of the various tailor shops, brassware emporiums, and photography shops that catered to American GIs frequenting Samgakji nights and weekends. Most of the shop owners were friendly to me but disappointed when they discovered I wasn’t there to buy anything.
I pretended to be conducting a verbal survey on the general impact of American soldiers’ presence on locals in the area. Did they feel that they and their families were safe? Did they think that law enforcement, particularly the American MPs, were doing a good enough job? To my surprise, they were more than willing to talk about it; enthusiastic, in fact. Yes, they thought that the MPs and the KNP patrols were doing an adequate job, but they also thought that some of the problems were caused by the MPs themselves. The black GIs were boisterous but generally well-behaved; it was when a patrol of white MPs came around that there seemed to be a thickening of tension. A few of the shop owners asked me why the American army didn’t have more black MPs.
I didn’t respond, mainly because I didn’t know what to tell them. I’d wondered that too. The military claimed that to be an MP, you had to meet certain qualifications that were more stringent than in other parts of the army, and it just so happened that more white soldiers met those conditions than black ones. Maybe. My own theory was that some black soldiers were reluctant to become MPs-it was like siding with the enemy. And some white soldiers couldn’t wait to become MPs-to have the authority to lord it over others. Still, most MPs, in my experience, were honest and even sometimes heroic.
Korea specializes in three-wheeled trucks. There’s a small cabin up front, just wide enough for a driver and one passenger, and a long, narrow bed in back enclosed by a short wall that can be loaded with enormous mounds of agricultural produce. Already, I’d seen a few trucks heading toward the open-air market piled high with fat daikon radishes, mounds of Napa cabbage, and canvas-covered bundles of fresh garlic cloves.