tonight.”
“Why?”
“We might as well make this all-expenses-paid trip last for a while.”
Ernie nodded.
“And besides, I have a date tonight.”
The waitress brought our beers, smiling at Ernie. “So do I,” he said. “With the entire village of Sonyu-ri.”
A couple of hours later, Ernie wandered out into the village and I caught a cab and made it back to Kumchon. Ten minutes before the midnight curfew, Miss Ma took me by the hand and led me down long rows of narrow, dark alleys until we arrived at her hooch. Lying on the warm floor I discovered that she was more wonderful than I had imagined.
Her five-year-old daughter slept on the mat beside us.
In the middle of the afternoon a neatly uniformed officer stormed into the orderly room and chewed out the first sergeant for putting his supply point people on the duty roster. The first sergeant patiently explained that he was only trying to comply with army regulations, but the captain didn’t appear at all satisfied. When he stomped out of the office, he shot a quick glance at me, and I realized that he was Miss Ma’s paramour from the Golden Night Club. The one who had leaned across the bar and whispered in her ear. I also saw his nametag. Captain Calloway. The logistics officer.
I wedged the crowbar into the back window of the big Quonset hut, and after I pried in three different spots, it slammed open. I crawled through the window and closed it behind me. The place was typical GI issue. Rows of gray desks, filing cabinets, and a disbursing counter in the middle of the big cylindrical barn. I pulled out the flashlight I had bought at the PX and rifled through some of the files.
I pulled out my list of invoices, trying to match them to what was in the files, but the pertinent ones weren’t where they were supposed to be. They’d been removed. We would have to go back to the issuing point at Camp Casey and retrieve copies of the original invoices, which were sequentially numbered, to prove that Camp Edwards had received the stuff. If they’d also been removed there, we’d have to go back to Seoul. It wouldbe a lot of work, but eventually the accountability would be established.
I checked some of the desks. Nothing. Then I checked the desk with SFC Rawlings’s name plate perched on the front edge. I found them in the bottom drawer, wadded up under a half-empty bottle of Old Overholt. I spread them out on the desk, took a shot of the whiskey straight from the bottle, and shone my flashlight on them.
About thirty invoices altogether. The ones I had on my list and a whole bunch more. Enough to put these guys away. I still didn’t have the link, though. Captain Calloway, the logistics officer, would certainly be found guilty of dereliction of duty for not checking on them, but I would need more proof to nail him for actual collusion in the scheme. It could even go up beyond him. Maybe to the post commander.
Farfetched, perhaps. But it wouldn’t be the first time.
Behind one of the file cabinets was a wall locker with a non-army padlock. I looked through Sergeant Rawlings’s desk until I found a key. It worked. The locker was filled with some of your more valuable supplies: a brand new buffer with a pad, a few field jackets, a case full of Coleman lanterns. Under the shelves I found two large metal disks, about three feet across. They were rusted and soiled. Next to them lay a metal pole about four feet long. It had a narrow, flattened hook on the end.
I thought about it for a while, relocked the closet, and then went back and had another shot of Old Overholt.
I put the bottle of whiskey back where I’d found it, stuffed the invoices in my shirt, and climbed out the window. I stumbled in the snow for a minute, regaining my footing. Footsteps.
Before I could turn around, the back of my head exploded through my skull. My brains splattered against the olive drab walls of the sheet metal Quonset hut.
Or at least that’s what it felt like.
I came
“Why?”
“We might as well make this all-expenses-paid trip last for a while.”
Ernie nodded.
“And besides, I have a date tonight.”
The waitress brought our beers, smiling at Ernie. “So do I,” he said. “With the entire village of Sonyu-ri.”
A couple of hours later, Ernie wandered out into the village and I caught a cab and made it back to Kumchon. Ten minutes before the midnight curfew, Miss Ma took me by the hand and led me down long rows of narrow, dark alleys until we arrived at her hooch. Lying on the warm floor I discovered that she was more wonderful than I had imagined.
Her five-year-old daughter slept on the mat beside us.
In the middle of the afternoon a neatly uniformed officer stormed into the orderly room and chewed out the first sergeant for putting his supply point people on the duty roster. The first sergeant patiently explained that he was only trying to comply with army regulations, but the captain didn’t appear at all satisfied. When he stomped out of the office, he shot a quick glance at me, and I realized that he was Miss Ma’s paramour from the Golden Night Club. The one who had leaned across the bar and whispered in her ear. I also saw his nametag. Captain Calloway. The logistics officer.
I wedged the crowbar into the back window of the big Quonset hut, and after I pried in three different spots, it slammed open. I crawled through the window and closed it behind me. The place was typical GI issue. Rows of gray desks, filing cabinets, and a disbursing counter in the middle of the big cylindrical barn. I pulled out the flashlight I had bought at the PX and rifled through some of the files.
I pulled out my list of invoices, trying to match them to what was in the files, but the pertinent ones weren’t where they were supposed to be. They’d been removed. We would have to go back to the issuing point at Camp Casey and retrieve copies of the original invoices, which were sequentially numbered, to prove that Camp Edwards had received the stuff. If they’d also been removed there, we’d have to go back to Seoul. It wouldbe a lot of work, but eventually the accountability would be established.
I checked some of the desks. Nothing. Then I checked the desk with SFC Rawlings’s name plate perched on the front edge. I found them in the bottom drawer, wadded up under a half-empty bottle of Old Overholt. I spread them out on the desk, took a shot of the whiskey straight from the bottle, and shone my flashlight on them.
About thirty invoices altogether. The ones I had on my list and a whole bunch more. Enough to put these guys away. I still didn’t have the link, though. Captain Calloway, the logistics officer, would certainly be found guilty of dereliction of duty for not checking on them, but I would need more proof to nail him for actual collusion in the scheme. It could even go up beyond him. Maybe to the post commander.
Farfetched, perhaps. But it wouldn’t be the first time.
Behind one of the file cabinets was a wall locker with a non-army padlock. I looked through Sergeant Rawlings’s desk until I found a key. It worked. The locker was filled with some of your more valuable supplies: a brand new buffer with a pad, a few field jackets, a case full of Coleman lanterns. Under the shelves I found two large metal disks, about three feet across. They were rusted and soiled. Next to them lay a metal pole about four feet long. It had a narrow, flattened hook on the end.
I thought about it for a while, relocked the closet, and then went back and had another shot of Old Overholt.
I put the bottle of whiskey back where I’d found it, stuffed the invoices in my shirt, and climbed out the window. I stumbled in the snow for a minute, regaining my footing. Footsteps.
Before I could turn around, the back of my head exploded through my skull. My brains splattered against the olive drab walls of the sheet metal Quonset hut.
Or at least that’s what it felt like.
I came
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