Joy Brigade (30 page)

Naively, I expected immediate compliance. Maybe they’d court-martial me later for trying to run my own foreign policy, but right now they were under pressure to act.
After all, any delay could endanger the first armed uprising that Kim Il-sung’s regime had faced since taking power in 1948. Surely, if they practiced what they preached, if—as we’d so often been told—the godless North Koreans were the worst threat to Western civilization since the Black Plague, the anticommunist honchos of the Eighth United States Army would want to help. When they dissembled, I was appalled.

“They’re dying up there,” I told them. “Maybe they can hold out for a few days. Maybe only a few hours. We have to act now.”

“We understand your concern,” Major Bulward said.

“It’s more than concern,” I said. “They’ll be slaughtered.” I thought of the men of the Manchurian Battalion who’d risked their lives to rescue me from torture. I thought of the people who’d so generously nursed me back to health, who’d taken care of my son, who’d protected his mother from harm. “We have to do something!” I said. “We have to act now.”

But no one acted. Negotiations dragged on. Gradually, it dawned on me that they weren’t going to act. Instead, they kept hammering me for information on the tunnels. I kept refusing. Demanding now, in writing, the two things I wanted. Resupply for the Manchurian Battalion and freedom for Doc Yong. I was threatened with not only court-martial but also being charged with every crime in the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Still, I’d been around military law enforcement long enough, and the uses and abuses of power in the Eighth United States Army, to know that when you have a bargaining chip, you don’t give it up. Not without ironclad guarantees.

And I had the tunnels.

Enraged, Colonel Yancy restricted me to the compound. For security reasons, he told me. But the real reason was that after having spent so much time in North Korea, and after having expressed views sympathetic to the Manchurian Battalion, the honchos of Eighth Army no longer trusted me. If they ever had.

Now, with the suspicion that had so unexpectedly turned my way, I wouldn’t have left the compound anyway. I didn’t want anyone following me to the hooch where Doc Yong and Il-yong were staying.

I did manage to break free from my briefings for long enough to make it over to Eighth Army Finance and collect the back pay that was due me. I’d never had so much money in one chunk in my entire life. Some of it I converted to won.

At night, Ernie took the money I’d converted and a few things—baby oil and fruit juice and cartons of powdered milk—out to Il-yong and Doc Yong. He took a circuitous route and promised he’d watch for anyone tailing him. I longed to go with him but dared not. Who knew what spies were lurking? It was too dangerous. Not only could I be court-martialed for violating my restriction, but, without a pardon, if Doc Yong were arrested, she might spend the rest of her life in a South Korean prison.

After two days, it was apparent that Eighth Army wasn’t going to budge. They weren’t going to provide ammunition and medical supplies for a group of fighters whom they considered to be Communist bandits and enemies of their allies in the South Korean government.

Still, they wanted the information on the location of
the tunnel. I refused to give it to them. They eventually did what I’d been expecting, formally threatening me with court-martial.

“That’s why we sent you up there,” Major Bulward told me. “To gather intelligence for the United States of America. You’re under orders to provide that information.”

Still, I refused.

The federal penitentiary at Fort Leavenworth was a long way away. In the wheat fields of Kansas. But if I had to go there to protect Doc Yong and my son, I’d do it.

Strange told us to meet him at the “snatch bar.” It was actually the Eighth United States Army Snack Bar. GIs called it the “snatch bar” because occasionally a young soldier managed to form a liaison with one of the American female civilians or dependent teenage daughters who frequented the busy cafeteria. Of course, when one did, he’d blather the news all over the barracks.

Strange was the NCO in charge of classified material at the headquarters of the Eighth United States Army. I didn’t believe he was one of those lucky GIs. Not with his potbelly, receding hairline, and cigarette hanging limply from a plastic holder. Still, he thought he was Mister Cool.

“They’re not buying it,” he told me.

“Buying what?” Ernie asked.

“Sueño’s bargain. He wants his girlfriend let off …”

“She’s more than my ‘girlfriend,’ ” I said. We’d been through too much together for our relationship to be brushed off so easily.

“Okay,” Strange said. “Whatever she is. And you want
the tunnel used to send weapons and ammunition to this Mongolian Battalion …”

“The Manchurian Battalion,” I corrected.

“Okay, whatever you call ’em. You want ammo sent up there with no guarantee that these guys, whoever they are, will overthrow the Commies.”

“The leaders of the Manchurian Battalion are communists themselves,” I told him. “But they believe in a humanistic form of communism. A socialist democracy, actually.”

“Whatever you say. But Eighth Army ain’t going for it.”

“Is there anything they will accept?” I was hoping that there was still time to save the Manchurian Battalion.

“They want to know the location of the tunnel,” Strange replied. “Not to transport arms across the DMZ, but to enlarge it and reinforce it and use it as an invasion route if the North Koreans ever attack us.”

“If I tell them, what do I get in return?”

“You don’t get court-martialed.”

“They have nothing on me. They can’t court-martial a GI for not knowing something.”

“But they believe you
do
know,” Strange said. “You’ve as much as admitted it. After all, you escaped through the tunnel.”

“It was at night. I was disoriented. There’s no way I could lead them back.”

“And that’s your story?”

“That’s my story.”

Strange glanced around the busy snack bar, making sure no one was listening. Silverware clinked on porcelain. He leaned forward.

“They’re going to burn her,” he said.

“Burn who?” Ernie asked.

“Sueño’s girlfriend.” When he saw my face, he waved his hand as if to ward off anger. “I mean your associate or whatever she is. The South Koreans are out there now, doing everything they can to track her down.”

“Why?” Ernie asked.

“First, she’s wanted for murder. But more importantly, they figure that once they have her in custody, they’ll have some leverage over our good friend Sergeant Sueño here.”

I sat back. Not stunned by what Strange had just told me—I’d expected it—but filled with rage at the way, after all we’d been through, they still treated Doc Yong as a criminal. A woman who had dedicated her life to fighting for the freedom and dignity of the Korean people.

Ernie noticed my reaction and shifted his seat a little closer, as if to intervene if I reached across the table and grabbed Strange by the neck.

“How do you know all this?” Ernie asked.

Strange mimicked lifting the edge of a “Top Secret” cover sheet and peering at the document below. “I look out for my fellow NCOs.”

Ernie sighed. “Okay, Harvey. Thanks for the information. What do you want in return?”

Strange leaned forward. “Had any
strange
lately?”

Ernie made up a story of erotic intrigue. As he listened, Strange’s cigarette holder bobbled.

All I knew for sure was that Doctor Yong In-ja and our son were in danger. The problem was that, other than stay away from them, I didn’t know what to do to protect them. Eighth Army had refused my deal. I had nowhere else to go.

I was sitting alone in the barracks, wishing I could see Doc Yong and Il-yong, when Ernie entered my room.

“Here,” he said, handing me a note.

It was written in Korean and I had to pull out my Korean-English dictionary to decipher it. The meaning was what I had been expecting but dreading:
We are leaving
, she wrote.
Don’t search for us. All we will do is rip you away from your own country. We will survive. I will teach Il-yong never to forget you
.

There was no signature.

I crumpled the note and looked up at Ernie.

“Where’d she go?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. She was already gone when I got there. All her stuff was cleared out. Only this note taped to the center of the floor.”

Ernie walked with me down the hill to the NCO Club.

A Korean show band was playing that night. The Locks and Keys, I think they were called. I ordered a straight shot of Old Overwart with a beer chaser. After four of them, I didn’t hear a word they sang.

Major Bulward ordered me to report to his office. He sat at a table across from me and slid a classified document my way. The cover sheet was red. It said “Top Secret.”

“Read it,” he said.

It was a report gleaned mostly from aerial reconnaissance, concerning the area near Mount O-song. It wasn’t good. I slid the report back to him. He shoved the document into a leather briefcase and locked the metal hasp.

“The Manchurian Battalion no longer exists,” he said. “The forces of the Dear Leader overran them two days ago. There were few survivors.”

“How about Bandit Lee?”

“He died fighting.”

I felt as if an AK-47 round had slammed into my gut.

“We could’ve saved them,” I said.

Major Bulward was silent for a moment. Then he said, “That’s a decision that was made above our pay grade.”

I didn’t answer.

“Are you going to tell us about the tunnel?” he asked.

“You don’t need me. You’ll find it eventually.”

“I’m sorry about your girlfriend,” he said.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I said. “She’s more than that.”

“Your wife?” he ventured.

“Not now.” I glared at him. “You ruined that.”

I stood and walked out of his office.

Two months later, Ernie and I were back on black-market detail. Because we hadn’t arrested enough housewives for exceeding their rationed purchases out of the commissary and PX, our statistics—as usual—were lousy. As a result, we’d drawn a nighttime security detail: escorting the Eighth Army J-2, Colonel Yancy, to a soiree at the ROK Ministry of National Defense.

We followed his sedan in Ernie’s jeep, down the brightly lit streets of Seoul and through the big iron gates. We watched as his sedan pulled up in front of the huge cement-block building and uniformed South Korean soldiers opened the back door for him. Looking sharp in
his dress blue uniform, Colonel Yancy marched up the cement steps toward the main hall of the ministry. Ernie parked in a lot out back and, after flashing our badges to more uniformed soldiers, we entered through a side door.

The hall was softly lit and there was a twelve-piece military orchestra on the balcony. Officers and diplomats and South Korean dignitaries of all types were enjoying canapés and hors d’oeuvres and bubbling champagne in fluted glasses. The women, like the men, were mostly middle-aged, but a few of the younger female South Korean officers caught Ernie’s eye.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s grab some of those crackers.”

“We’re on duty,” I said.

“They won’t miss ’em.”

We walked along the edge of the hall until we reached the double doorway leading back to the kitchen. When a white-gloved waiter came by, Ernie managed to snag some snacks off a silver platter. The man ducked away and kept moving.

“Now for some champagne,” Ernie said.

“Forget it, Ernie. You’ll get us in trouble.”

He stopped suddenly and elbowed me. “Get a load of her.”

Across the hall, wearing a tailored uniform of a short skirt and a matching tunic, stood a statuesque woman.

“She’s looking at you,” Ernie said, munching on his cracker. “Man, she could be a fashion model. What a doll.” He swiveled his head to study me. “Do you know her?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I stared into the haunting eyes of Senior Captain Rhee Mi-sook. At first, I had the impulse to run, but I controlled it. She wasn’t wearing the
uniform of a North Korean officer; she was dressed as a major in the South Korean Army. And she wasn’t trying to hide. Not at all. She seemed perfectly at home in this crowd. She held my gaze boldly, a half-smile on her lips.

Then she raised her champagne glass in a toast and sipped.