The Wandering Ghost (18 page)

Ernie and I ignored his insult. Maybe we did look like shit. But after being locked in a Korean dungeon for the better part of a twelve-hour period, we were delighted to see him. Outside, a green four-door army-issue sedan stood ready to whisk us to freedom.

“What about my jeep?” Ernie asked.

“Division’s bringing it,” Riley answered.

“Tell them to keep their paws off it.”

Riley ignored him. There was paperwork to complete. On behalf of the 8th United States Army, Staff Sergeant Riley signed receipts for Ernie and me, as if we were items of property. At the time he took us into custody, he assumed responsibility for our future conduct.

I felt like a toaster he’d won at a raffle.

After the paperwork was done, we retrieved our clothing and our identification. The final things the KNPs turned over to Riley were our .45’s, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied tightly with twine. He tucked the two weapons under his arm. None of the KNPs came to see us off. Outside, Ernie and I stood for a moment, breathing the late afternoon air, laced with the aroma of burnt diesel and fermenting kimchee. The breeze from the north was bitingly cold but we didn’t mind. To us it was the bite of freedom. Down the road, in the TDC bar district, neon began to twinkle to life, as if to fight back against the gray overcast that darkened the sky.

As we sauntered down the sidewalk, Staff Sergeant Riley assured us that we hadn’t been charged with a crime. However, Division had lodged a formal complaint with the 8th Army provost marshal about our firing rounds at their soldiers. In response, the 8th Army PMO agreed that we would be withdrawn from the 2nd Division area of operations.

“Immediately if not sooner,” was the way Riley put it.

Ernie howled. “What? You’ve got to be shitting me? We were just starting to make progress.”

Riley shook his head. “I’m not ‘shitting’ anybody. If you were making progress, you should’ve made it faster. Eighth Army says you’re history up here.”

Racial tensions were high at all fifty-seven U.S. military base camps throughout the Republic of Korea and the 8th Army honchos were well aware of it. A couple of years ago there’d been riots in Itaewon—black GIs fighting white GIs—and the Command had received horrible press coverage. They weren’t taking any chances of that happening again.

As soon as we reached Riley’s sedan, three jeeps pulled alongside. Two armed Division MPs sat in the first two. Trailing them was another jeep we recognized. Ernie’s. An MP was driving that one, too, and they refused to turn the jeep over to us until we reached the border of the Division AO. Argument was futile, so Ernie and I climbed into the sedan.

As Riley slid into the driver’s seat, he said, “Watch the merchandise back there.”

Ernie grunted. I looked back and saw an old army blanket covering some lumpy objects. Probably Riley was black-marketeering. The less I knew the better.

We pulled away from the police station, cruising south toward the Main Supply Route. Within a mile, we’d left the city limits of Tongduchon. The two Division MP jeeps and Ernie’s 8th Army jeep trailed behind us. No one spoke. Ernie and I were too exhausted. I still hadn’t had a chance to tell Ernie about the mystery man. Time for that later.

About five miles on, we reached the southernmost Division checkpoint. The MP guards and the Korean
honbyong
had been notified by field radio to expect our little convoy. Holding their automatic rifles pointed at the sky, they blew their whistles shrilly, and waved us on. About twenty yards past the checkpoint, we reached the last row of dragon’s teeth. Four-foot-high cement monoliths stretched away from the MSR for miles on either side, like a poor man’s version of the Great Wall of China.

Riley pulled over and so did the Division MPs. The guy driving Ernie’s jeep hopped out, tossed the keys to Riley, and climbed into the back of one of the Division MP jeeps. Without so much as a fare-thee-well, the Division MPs performed a U-turn and roared off back north, gunning their engines all the while. Irritated, apparently, at having to venture so close to the realms of REMF territory.

Riley tossed the keys to Ernie. “Can you drive?” he asked.

“Can I drive?” Ernie growled out the question, leaving no doubt that he believed he was capable of driving under any conditions.

As Ernie walked toward the jeep, Riley turned in his seat and said, “Okay. You can come out now.”

The bundles beneath the army blanket wiggled. Then the old blanket was tossed back and a huge Afro hairdo emerged. With a big smile spread across round cheeks, a voluptuous woman rose from the back seat of Riley’s sedan like Athena springing from the brow of Zeus.

“Ain’t no bag, man,” she said.

Brandy, the bartender from the Black Cat Club, the woman we’d been searching for last night. She stared directly into my eyes, smiling. Amused by the completeness of my surprise.

About five miles farther south—while we were still fifteen miles north of Seoul—Riley pulled off the Main Supply Route and onto a road that led to the main gate of Camp Red Cloud, the I Corps headquarters. After we were cleared by the MPs at the gate, he drove to a large wooden building with a huge sign out front: The Papa-san Club. I’d heard about it. An NCO club that was rumored to be one of the best in the country.

Riley, Brandy, and I climbed out of the sedan. Ernie climbed out of the jeep, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Did you see what those bastards did?”

He motioned toward the back seat of his jeep. We all walked over. Our traveling bags sat in the front passenger seat, chock full of our clothing and belongings that had been stuffed into them. Apparently, the Division MPs had checked us out of billeting. But the back seat was what Ernie was upset about. It was in tatters. Black leather tuck-and-roll upholstery, had been shredded systematically with what must’ve been a very sharp knife. White cotton puffed out of the wounds like popcorn.

“I paid good money for that tuck-and-roll,” Ernie said, “and now look at it.”

This jeep was exclusively assigned to Ernie. But not officially. Officially, vehicles were rotated based on the priority established by local commanders. However, Ernie made sure a bottle of imported Scotch landed on the desk of the head dispatcher at the 21 T Car motor pool in Seoul every month. Therefore, the jeep was his. And he paid to have it maintained and painted and cleaned regularly. The tuck-and-roll had been an additional touch. If he thought he could’ve gotten away with it, Ernie would’ve equipped his jeep with reverse chrome rims and had it painted cherry red.

“Just spite,” Ernie told us. “Petty jealousy and spite.”

And then he realized that Brandy had joined us and he leaned over and hugged her, a little too long I thought. After Ernie’d calmed down somewhat, the four of us walked up cement stairs into the warm environs of Western civilization. Or Western civilization as its practiced in the military compounds of the 8th United States Army.

After chow, Riley was anxious to get back on the road and return to Seoul.

“You have a day off tomorrow,” he said. “It’s Sunday. But first thing Monday morning the First Shirt wants you two back on the black-market detail.”

“Bullshit,” Ernie said.

He expressed my feelings exactly. More chasing GIs—or their Korean spouses—through the back alleys of Itaewon to bust them for selling duty-free PX goods on the Korean black market. A waste of time. Especially when real crime swirled all around us.

The cannon went off outside at I Corps Headquarters and the flag was lowered; a few NCOs drifted into the bar. A Korean go-go girl climbed up onto a round stage and after a few coins were dropped into the jukebox, she started dancing. Brandy watched her intently, perhaps imagining that she’d look even better in the sequined outfit. Then Brandy told us what she was doing here. After the fiasco at the Black Cat Club last night, when she’d heard that we were looking for her, she’d waited until curfew was over and come looking for us. Earlier today, she’d hooked up with Riley. Now, most significantly, she felt guilty that she’d previously held out on us concerning the whereabouts of Jill Matthewson.

“Jill made me promise. Don’t tell nobody where she go.”

“So where’d she go?” Ernie asked.

Brandy didn’t know. But she claimed that she could put us in touch with somebody who did know. Somebody who was desperate to talk to us about the disappearance of Corporal Jill Matthewson.

I pressed Brandy on why she hadn’t told us this before. She said at first she couldn’t be sure if we were working for 2nd Division. Jill was afraid of the Division, although Brandy wasn’t sure why. Once we were arrested by the KNPs, and kicked out of Tongduchon by the 2nd ID honchos, Brandy decided that she’d better fess up.

“Maybe Jill need help,” she said. “I don’t know. But I trust you guys now.”

The new lead Brandy provided made up my mind. We had to return to TDC and follow it up. Ernie agreed with me immediately. Staff Sergeant Riley, however, went into shock.

“You can’t go back up to Division,” he said. “You’ll be refusing to comply with the provost marshal’s direct order to return to Seoul.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Ernie said. “During our off-duty time we can go anywhere we want.”

“But Eighth Army specifically told you to stay out of the Division area of operations.”

“What they don’t know, won’t hurt them,” Ernie said. “Besides, Jill Matthewson is still missing.”

“The Division MPs will find her,” Riley replied.

“They haven’t yet,” I responded. “And after what Brandy just told us, they may not want to find her. Not alive anyway.”

“You’re full of it,” Riley said. “So maybe she can embarrass the Division. It’s happened before. They’ll survive. But they have no reason to murder her.”

“Maybe she’s already been murdered,” Ernie said.

“Maybe its more than just embarrassment,” I added. “Careers could be involved. Did you ever find those ration control plate records I asked for?”

“I checked with Smitty at Data Processing. He says those records are classified. Locked in the OIC’s safe.” The safe of the officer-in-charge.

“Can he get to them?”

“Maybe. But it’s going to cost me.”

“We need to know what’s on them,” Ernie said. “That could bring this whole thing together. Once we lay it on the 8th Army PMO’s desk, he’ll order that the records be declassified.”

Riley sipped on his double bourbon. His thin lips curled as if he were sucking a persimmon. “Do you guys have any idea what you’re messing with?”

“Honchos,” I said. “They step on little people and don’t expect anyone to fight back.”

Ernie set his drink down, rose from the cocktail table, and said, “I’m heading back up to Division, Sueño, with or without you. And, this time, instead of being slapped around like a red-headed stepchild, I plan to kick some serious ass.”

The new evidence Brandy spilled to us centered around something she referred to as “mafia meetings.” She hadn’t told the KNPs about them, nor had she mentioned them to anyone else, including us, because Jill Matthewson made her promise not to.

“Jill pissed off,” Brandy told us. “She MP, same-same like man, but in jeep she have to carry
meikju
.” Beer. “She takey, go from black-market honcho place over to . . . what you call that place? WV something.”

Brandy pronounced the letter
v
as something similar to “boo-we.” Koreans have a lot of trouble with
v
’s and
z
’s since neither letter appears in their alphabet.

“WVOW,” I said. The Wounded Veterans of Overseas Wars. They ran the small casino on the outskirts of Tongduchon.

“Yeah,” Brandy said. “That place. Then she have to go pick up from Pak Tong-i, Miss Kim. Takey back WVOW.”

It wasn’t a pretty picture but not unheard of in the U.S. Army. Some lower-level officer or NCO—in this case probably Warrant Officer Fred Bufford—is given the responsibility of setting up the meeting. The honcho—probably Colonel Alcott—says something like, “I don’t care how you do it, just do it.” Bufford’s not given any money so he uses the resources he has. That is, MPs, MP jeeps, and whatever influence he might have over the businessmen in Tongduchon. Jill Matthewson picks up beer contributed by a local TDC black marketeer and she also picks up a stripper contributed by Kimchee Entertainment. Why would these men contribute such valuable commodities to a mafia meeting? Because the colonels who run the 2nd Infantry Division exercise huge influence in Tongduchon. They can decide, for instance, if GIs are to be given overnight passes on payday or if an entire battalion of 1,200 men should be restricted to compound. Or which contractor will be awarded a bid to build a new officers’ club annex on Camp Casey. Also, they can decide how to utilize the provost marshal’s finite resources. For instance, should they have MP investigators chase violent criminals or should they assign them to spend their time trying to interrupt the smooth operations of the TDC black market? Faced with this kind of power, Korean businessmen—especially the ones involved in corruption—would contribute to the mafia meeting and contribute gladly.

So Corporal Jill Matthewson transports the entire load over to the WVOW Club. When everything’s set up, the honchos arrive: staff colonels from the 2nd Infantry Division, every one a full bird. Then, according to Brandy, Jill was forced to stand outside the front of the club, in uniform, and make sure no uninvited guests entered.

She didn’t like the duty. She didn’t like what was going on inside the WVOW. She didn’t like the additional business girls who were brought over by Pak Tong-i and other local businessmen. And she didn’t like the photographs that were shown to her later, photos taken secretly by Miss Kim Yong-ai. Photos of most of the honchos of the 2nd Infantry Division engaged in various compromising positions with the Korean business girls who tended to be less than half their ages.

Actually, I’d heard of mafia meetings before. They’re a tradition in the U.S. Army. Staff officers get together during off-duty hours in an informal setting and exchange ideas concerning the best ways to improve operations in the division and the best ways to effectively implement the policies of the commanding general. Nothing wrong with that. But apparently the participants at the 2nd Infantry Division had lost sight of the original intent of the meetings.