And it was just such a young god, with an MP helmet on his head, a single silver bar on his lapel and a name tag that said Phillips, who exploded out of the still-sputtering jeep and strode toward us, face aflame, pointing his forefinger at Ernie and then me like an avenging demon, shouting at the top of his lungs.
“You don’t mess with my people!” With that one shout, his voice was already hoarse. Doggedly, he kept at us. “You don’t mess with my people! Do you understand me, Troop?”
He was nose to nose with Ernie. Too close. Ernie grimaced but let the silence stretch for a moment. Then he said, “You think you’re hot shit, eh, Phillips?”
Phillips leaned in closer. “You will address me as Lieutenant Phillips or sir. Is that understood?”
Phillips must’ve had bad breath. Ernie leaned his head back slightly but then, without warning, snapped his skull forward and butted the helmet of Lieutenant Phillips, hard. Lieutenant Phillips’s head bounced back like a bowling ball and, startled, he took a step backward, instinctively reaching for his .45. The MP patrol closed in, at least one of them unsnapping the leather cover of his holster. Specialist Austin, the MP at the gate, had stepped outside of the guard shack, along with the Korean guard named Kim, and both men were staring at us. All of the food and souvenir vending carts had disappeared. Along the strip, made-up faces craned out of bead-covered doorways. Some of the bar girls were walking forward now, arms crossed, but oblivious to the cold night, craving an exciting show.
Lieutenant Phillips reached for his forehead. “You hit me,” he said, incredulous.
“No,” Ernie replied. “I headbutted you. There’s a difference. If I’d hit you, you’d be flat on your ass by now.”
One of the MPs reached for my elbow. I shrugged him off. Another MP started to reach for his handcuffs, but Lieutenant Phillips held out his open palm and waved them off. By now, word had spread throughout the nightclub district of Sonyu-ri; bar girls and teahouse dollies and half-drunk GIs were streaming our way like a small parade.
Phillips reached toward the center of his chest, undid one of the buttons on his fatigue blouse and reached inside his shirt. Grinning, he pulled out a sheet of paper.
“Message for you boys,” he said. “Straight from the head shed.” Without taking his eyes off of Ernie, he handed it to me. It was a strip ripped from a larger roll of teletype paper. A “twixt,” the army calls it. A telegraphic transmission.
“I can’t read this,” I said.
Obligingly, one of the MPs pulled out his flashlight and held it steady for me. I read the message and sighed.
“What is it?” Ernie asked.
Before I could answer, Lieutenant Phillips said, “You CID pukes are hereby ordered back to Seoul, immediately if not sooner. You’re off the case. Your services are no longer required. So get the hell out of the Division area.” He turned toward the MPs. “You three men, escort these two to their vehicle. No bullshit this time. Make sure they leave Sonyu-ri.”
Lieutenant Phillips adjusted his helmet and turned to walk toward his jeep. On the way, he waved his forefinger at Ernie. “Your assault on a superior officer will be noted in my report. And I’ve got witnesses.”
He hopped in his jeep, started it up, and backed away in a swirl of burnt gas.
“Bite me!” Ernie shouted after him.
One of the MPs snickered. Another stared at him sternly and the offending MP straightened his face.
“Where’s your jeep?” one of the MPs asked.
“This is your village,” Ernie said. “Don’t you know?”
I grabbed Ernie by the elbow and we walked up the MSR away from the village of Sonyu-ri. The MPs watched us. About a hundred yards east of the Camp Pelham gate, on the opposite side of the road, was a small nonappropriated fund compound known locally as maekju chang-go. The beer warehouse. It was a transshipment point for the food and beverages used by the Division officer and enlisted club system. The guards were Korean contract hires. Not MPs. I’d tipped them with some PX-purchased cigarettes and they said they’d keep an eye on our jeep, which they did. It was waiting for us just inside their compound near the small guard shack.
“What’s the message say?” Ernie asked.
“Nothing much. We’re ordered back to Seoul immediately.”
“It doesn’t say if we’re off the case or not?”
“Not specifically.”
Ernie started the jeep and we rolled out of the NAF compound, waved to the gate guard who was smoking happily in his shack, and turned west on the two-lane road. We passed the Camp Pelham gate on our left. Austin and gate guard Kim seemed to be hunched down in their shack. The MP patrol had disappeared and the bar girls were back at their stations, standing beneath neon, waving and cooing to potential customers. The village of Sonyu-ri, and the universe, rolled on.
We had almost reached RC-4 when a dark shape darted into the road. Ernie slammed on his brakes.
“What the . . .”
A man stood in front of us, holding both hands out. He was young, Caucasian, about five-foot-eight and extremely thin. He was wearing a collared shirt, brightly colored like something designed to replicate a psychedelic dream. His hair was reddish and curly and worn in a bouffant that was beyond what was allowed by military regulation. He had a scraggly mustache that drooped around the corners of his mouth, and he seemed not to have shaven for a couple of days. When he saw that we’d come to a full stop, he approached Ernie’s side of the jeep. Ernie shoved the canvas door open.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“I had to stop you,” the man said, breathless. His voice was hurried. Green eyes darted from side to side. “He shouldn’t have done it,” he said.
“Who?” I asked.
It was as if he hadn’t heard me.
“She just wanted her freedom, that’s all.”
“Who are you talking about?” I shouted.
“The red dress,” he said, nervously gathering the front of his shirt in his hand and glancing toward the village. “It wasn’t even hers. He gave it to her. She was forced to wear it.”
Ernie switched off the engine and started to get out of the jeep, but the small man was quick. He backed away and darted in front of our headlights. By then I was opening my door, but we were parked next to a line of kimchi cabs, some of them with Munsan license plates, and many of the drivers were standing outside of their cabs, smoking, and watching the little display in front of them.
The man slid deftly between two of the cabs.
“You can talk to us,” I shouted. “We’ll listen!”
“You were there,” he shouted back. “You were almost there!”
And then he disappeared into one of the narrow alleyways.
Ernie and I glanced at one another, coming to an unspoken agreement, and as Ernie padlocked the jeep, I leapt out of the passenger side and gave chase. But there wasn’t much lighting in the alleyway, and by the time Ernie had grabbed his flashlight from the jeep and caught up with me, I’d come to a complete stop because I couldn’t see a foot in front of me. He switched on the “flash,” as Koreans call it, but the narrow pathway in front of us was empty. We followed it five yards back, where it split into three more passageways. We followed one, but it wound through the backs of tightly packed hooches. All we heard was the shouts of mothers berating their kids and pots being clanged and radios blaring the songs of Patti Kim. We returned to where we’d started and checked another passageway but found nothing.