attention and she had other orders to fill, but as soon as she had everybody smiling again she came back to me. I had a couple more liters of beer and we talked as if we were old friends. Her eyes lit up when I told her that I had just arrived in country, on my second tour in Korea. Opportunity for both of us. Her name was Miss Ma.
Someone kicked the door in. A group of shouting, hooting Americans trundled inside the Golden Nightclub. Officers. Even in civilian clothes they were practically wearing signs around their necks. First of all, they were acting like jerks. Also, they had whitewall haircuts and blue jeans and sport shirts that, although wrinkled, had been neatly pressed before they left the compound. They acted like they owned the place.
They pulled a couple of tables together and started ordering and grabbing at the waitresses, and one of them peeled away from the group and lumbered toward the bar. Miss Ma moved away from me quickly.
He didn’t order anything. Instead, he leaned over and whispered something in Miss Ma’s ear. At first she didn’t move, but then she spoke to him and he seemed to become angry and she spoke again and then she had him convinced of something and they were both nodding and finally he walked away. She got busy filling orders from the waitresses, and it was another ten minutes before she returned to me.
“You go back compound tonight?”
“Yes. I won’t have an overnight until tomorrow.”
She exhaled slightly—relieved—and then her shoulders rose and she smiled. “Maybe I will see you then?”
Playing hard to get is a ploy that has never entered my repertoire.
“You will,” I said.
After a couple more beers and a few dirty looks from the officer who had talked to Miss Ma, I stumbled out the door and made it back to Camp Edwards. Once I jumped in the rack, visions of her smiling face danced before me. Later that night I tried to struggle free from miles of unraveling copper wire, spinning off its spool, entrapping me in an ever-shrinking web of shimmering metal.
After watching the overloaded deuce-and-a-half pull out just before dawn, I spent the day trying to adjust to the routine of my new job as the assistant company clerk. The first sergeant was a little young, as first sergeants go, and seemed to be in over his head. The company clerk, Specialist 5 Flourey, didn’t seem overly efficient, either. Basically the whole place was a mess. I did what I could, straightening out some files, typing some supply requests for the first sergeant, but mainly I concentrated on finding out who was who. After work I showered and shaved,signed out on my new overnight pass, and took a cab north to the RC4 Enlisted Club.
I pulled Ernie away from the bar, and we sat at the most isolated table we could find, which is sort of difficult in a one-room Quonset hut.
“The guy who drove the truck,” I said, “was Sergeant First Class Rawlings, NCO-in-charge of the supply point.”
“That’s a lot of stripes for driving a truck.”
“Depends on where he was going.”
“And what he was carrying.”
Ernie stopped the waitress and ordered us a couple of Fal-staffs. “He went up north to the DMZ, Camp Kitty Hawk. A group of GIs unloaded the truck, and after he left I checked out the supplies.”
“Find anything?”
“Nothing but lumber and cement,” Ernie said. “I lead-footed it down the MSR and caught up with him.”
“No other stops?”
“None.”
“They must be getting the wire off post some other way.”
We sipped on our beer for a while.
“They must be covering for him back at Camp Edwards,” I said. “That amount of supplies couldn’t be disappearing without somebody higher up noticing it.”
“Who’s the logistics officer?”
“Captain Calloway. All I have is a name so far. I’ll match it to a face tomorrow.”
“You need to get into the supply point and check their invoices.”
“I think I can manage it,” I said. “But not
Someone kicked the door in. A group of shouting, hooting Americans trundled inside the Golden Nightclub. Officers. Even in civilian clothes they were practically wearing signs around their necks. First of all, they were acting like jerks. Also, they had whitewall haircuts and blue jeans and sport shirts that, although wrinkled, had been neatly pressed before they left the compound. They acted like they owned the place.
They pulled a couple of tables together and started ordering and grabbing at the waitresses, and one of them peeled away from the group and lumbered toward the bar. Miss Ma moved away from me quickly.
He didn’t order anything. Instead, he leaned over and whispered something in Miss Ma’s ear. At first she didn’t move, but then she spoke to him and he seemed to become angry and she spoke again and then she had him convinced of something and they were both nodding and finally he walked away. She got busy filling orders from the waitresses, and it was another ten minutes before she returned to me.
“You go back compound tonight?”
“Yes. I won’t have an overnight until tomorrow.”
She exhaled slightly—relieved—and then her shoulders rose and she smiled. “Maybe I will see you then?”
Playing hard to get is a ploy that has never entered my repertoire.
“You will,” I said.
After a couple more beers and a few dirty looks from the officer who had talked to Miss Ma, I stumbled out the door and made it back to Camp Edwards. Once I jumped in the rack, visions of her smiling face danced before me. Later that night I tried to struggle free from miles of unraveling copper wire, spinning off its spool, entrapping me in an ever-shrinking web of shimmering metal.
After watching the overloaded deuce-and-a-half pull out just before dawn, I spent the day trying to adjust to the routine of my new job as the assistant company clerk. The first sergeant was a little young, as first sergeants go, and seemed to be in over his head. The company clerk, Specialist 5 Flourey, didn’t seem overly efficient, either. Basically the whole place was a mess. I did what I could, straightening out some files, typing some supply requests for the first sergeant, but mainly I concentrated on finding out who was who. After work I showered and shaved,signed out on my new overnight pass, and took a cab north to the RC4 Enlisted Club.
I pulled Ernie away from the bar, and we sat at the most isolated table we could find, which is sort of difficult in a one-room Quonset hut.
“The guy who drove the truck,” I said, “was Sergeant First Class Rawlings, NCO-in-charge of the supply point.”
“That’s a lot of stripes for driving a truck.”
“Depends on where he was going.”
“And what he was carrying.”
Ernie stopped the waitress and ordered us a couple of Fal-staffs. “He went up north to the DMZ, Camp Kitty Hawk. A group of GIs unloaded the truck, and after he left I checked out the supplies.”
“Find anything?”
“Nothing but lumber and cement,” Ernie said. “I lead-footed it down the MSR and caught up with him.”
“No other stops?”
“None.”
“They must be getting the wire off post some other way.”
We sipped on our beer for a while.
“They must be covering for him back at Camp Edwards,” I said. “That amount of supplies couldn’t be disappearing without somebody higher up noticing it.”
“Who’s the logistics officer?”
“Captain Calloway. All I have is a name so far. I’ll match it to a face tomorrow.”
“You need to get into the supply point and check their invoices.”
“I think I can manage it,” I said. “But not
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