The Gunslinger turned his withering gaze toward me. “No, it wasn’t! We were one! One body, one team, one infantry division ready to kick some North Korean ass. Now, because of you, people are laughing at the Second Division. Saying we’re full of homos. Saying we don’t treat our black soldiers right.”
“Maybe you don’t, sir.”
“The hell I don’t.”
“Have you been out in Sonyu-ri lately?” I asked. “Have you visited the Black Star Nightclub? Seen how the black soldiers don’t want to socialize with the white soldiers? Seen how they feel they have to stick together to protect one another? Have you seen any of that, sir?”
He stepped toward me, face burning red. “Who in the hell do you think you are? What’s your name? Sween-o? What the fuck kind of a name is that?”
“Sueno,” Ernie said, pronouncing it correctly, the n like the ny in canyon.
The general swiveled on him. “You? You’re standing up for him? You’re in on it too, trying to make the division look bad. Trying to drag our name through the mud.”
“We gathered testimony,” Ernie said, “the testimony of your soldiers.”
The Gunslinger’s aide stepped forward and whispered something in the general’s ear. He nodded, seeming to come out of a reverie. He turned back to us and once again shook a bony finger.
“The court-martial’s starting. You’d better not tell any lies up there on the stand.”
With that, he swiveled and hurried into the courtroom. The aide didn’t look at us, but the senior NCO turned back and grinned.
“Hope you enjoyed the show,” Ernie said.
“Oh, I did.”
He grinned even more broadly.
Inside the courtroom, Second Lieutenant Robert Conroy fidgeted on a straight-backed wooden chair, looking like a third grader waiting for class to start. Ernie and I sat directly behind him in the gallery and he turned around, relieved to see us. “Did you find anything else?”
“No, sir,” Ernie replied, “can’t say that we have. Did you subpoena Threets’s buddies?”
“They wouldn’t let me.”
“Who?”
“Eighth Army JAG.”
“You could’ve done it if you wanted to.”
“They told me it would just make things worse for Threets.”
“Bull,” Ernie said.
Two MPs escorted in the accused, Private First Class Clifton Threets. He wore a wrinkled khaki uniform; nobody’d bothered to fetch his Class A uniform from Division. Hands shackled in front, Threets glanced at us sullenly and then, guided by the MPs, plopped down in a chair next to Lieutenant Conroy. The MPs retreated, one taking his place by the front entrance and the other near the rear. The accused and counsel conferred for a while, and then Conroy rose and stepped toward us. “Threets says his buddies will be here.”
“They can’t,” I said. “Not on a duty day and not unless they’re on approved pass.”
“I know that,” Conroy said, “but he insists they’ll be here.”
Ernie grinned and pulled out a stick of ginseng gum. “This I gotta see.”
To our left, the Gunslinger, his aide, and the accompanying senior NCO sat grimly behind Lieutenant Mendelson at the prosecution desk. A clerk I recognized from the JAG office entered through the back door behind the dais and shouted, “Attention in the Court!” Everyone stood, including General Kokol.
Three officers walked in: one JAG colonel and two lieutenant colonels. One of the lieutenant colonels wore signal brass, the other infantry. The three men marched behind polished oak, turned, and abruptly took their seats. Everyone else sat too. Then the presiding officer banged his gavel.
“Is the prosecution ready to proceed?”
“Ready, Your Honor,” Lieutenant Mendelson replied.
She stepped forward to present her case. It was precise and devastating. There was little doubt that during the biannual range qualification for Charley Battery, 2nd of the 17th Field Artillery Battalion, Private First Class Clifton Threets had, in fact, turned his weapon on Sergeant First Class Vincent P. Orgwell and shot him through the thigh. A ballistics technician testified as to the caliber of the rifle assigned to Threets, photographs of Orgwell’s wounds were shown, and Orgwell himself pointed out Threets as the man who had shot him. Most devastating were the written affidavits of a half-dozen fellow soldiers of Charley Battery who claimed they had seen Threets turn his weapon, aim at Orgwell, and fire.
Two hours later, when the prosecution rested, the court called a half-hour break. Ernie and I hustled back to the CID office.
“Where the hell you guys been?” Riley said.
“In court,” I replied.
“Where you belong,” he growled. “How many years they going to put you away for?”
I ignored him and checked my messages. Nothing from Mr. Kill. “Did you talk to personnel?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He tossed a sheaf of paperwork at me. “There’s your man. Worked for the Central Locker Fund two years ago. Specialist Five. Got out after four years active duty, chose an in-country discharge.”
“He didn’t go back to the States?” Ernie asked.
“That’s what in-country discharge means,” Riley replied.
I studied the folder. A black-and-white photo was attached to it. Ernie glanced at it.
“That’s the Ville Rat alright.”
It was unmistakably him. Except that instead of an Afro, he had a short haircut that didn’t accentuate the bright color of his hair. But it was the same narrow face, the same pointed chin, and a grim set to his mouth, as if he’d been observing something of which he didn’t completely approve. His name tag said Penwold. The personnel folder gave his first name as Orrin and his middle initial as W.
“Orrin W. Penwold,” Ernie said. “No wonder he calls himself Rat.”
He’d been a supply clerk who got lucky. First, he’d been transferred from Fort Hood, Texas, to Korea, skipping Vietnam, which was a good thing in and of itself, and then he’d hit the jackpot. Apparently there’d been an opening at the Central Locker Fund at about the same time he arrived and he’d been assigned to fill it. Despite acting like he didn’t give a damn, Riley had taken it upon himself to request the TO amp;E, or the Table of Operations and Equipment, from personnel. Every unit and operating section in the army had one. It spelled out what type of personnel and equipment was authorized and budgeted for. The Central Locker Fund was authorized only one active-duty NCO. Everyone else who worked there, like the boss, Rick Mills, was either a Department of the Army Civilian or a local Korean hire. Being a GI in an all-civilian unit meant that you’d be the gopher, the guy all the shit jobs fell to, but it also meant that you didn’t have to put up with a lot of military baloney, like extra training and duty on the weekends. In other words, the Central Locker Fund was a prime assignment.
“Who has the job now?” Ernie asked.
“The guy we saw when we were out there, Master Sergeant Demoray.”
“Must be nice,” Ernie said, “to roll out of shit and fall into clover.”
“I need one more thing,” I told Riley.
“What?” he barked.
I leaned across his desk and said it softly. “On the QT. Can you get me Rick Mills’s address?”
“Out on the economy?”
“Yeah. CPO must have it.” The Civilian Personnel Office.
I knew he was about to ask what I needed it for, but then he thought better of it and tightened his narrow lips. “You’ll owe me,” he said.
Last night, moonlight streamed in from an open window. Leah Prevault-also known as Captain Prevault-lay snuggled in my arms. She sighed and raised herself to tell me what she’d learned.
“Sergeant Orgwell is in an advanced state of denial,” she said. “Clearly, he lives a double life and hates himself for it. I want you to stay away from him.” She placed two soft fingers on my lips. “To protect himself, he could even resort to violence.”
“And Threets?” I asked.
“Also dangerous. Because of the trauma and humiliation he experienced, he could explode in rage.”