Martin Limón - Nightmare Range

Ernie and I remained hidden. We could see each other from across the street, but the two MPs couldn’t see us.

It took twenty minutes for three sailors, lost in their drunkenness, to wander down the road. They were little fellows, in uniform, hats tilted at odd angles. Two of them had beer bottles in their hands, and each had his wallet sticking out from beneath his tunic, folded over his waistband.

The navy’s into tradition. Even if it’s stupid. Or maybe especially if it’s stupid. No pockets.

We let the sailors pass us. I was glad Ernie didn’t warn them. Of course, he wasn’t the type to warn them anyway.

They didn’t see us as they passed. They were laughing and joking, and I doubt they would have noticed a jet plane if it had swooped down five feet over their heads.

What did swoop down was Budusky and his partner. Two of the sailors went down before the third even realized what was happening. He swung his beer bottle, but it missed its mark and he was enveloped by the two marauding behemoths.

Ernie and I slid out of our hiding places and floated up the hill, my roll of dimes clenched securely in my right fist. Ernie smashed his mallet into the back of the MP’s head, and I knew all our problems were over with him. But just as I launched my first punch at Budusky, he swiveled and caught the blow on his shoulder. I punched again, but I was off balance from having missed the first blow, and he countered and caught me in the ribs. It was hard, but I’ve had worse, and then we were toe to toe, belting each other, slugging viciously. It could have gone either way, and I was happy to see Ernie looming up behind him. I jabbed with my left and backed off, waiting for it all to end, but then, as if a trapdoor had opened beneath his feet, Ernie disappeared. I realized that one of the sailors had gotten up and, thinking Ernie was one of the enemy, had grabbed him and pulled him down. Another of the sailors came to, and now the three of them were rolling around on the ground flailing clubs and beer bottles at each other, cursing, spitting, and scratching.

Something blurred my vision, and Budusky was on me. I twisted, slipped a punch, and caught him with a good left hook in the midsection. He took it, punched back, and then we were wrestling. I lost my footing, pulled him down with me, and we rolled down the incline. I threw my weight and kept us rolling, I wasn’t sure why. Just to get us into the light, I guess. Our momentum increased our speed, and finally we jarred to a stop.

Blind chance had determined that it would be Budusky’s back that hit the cement pole with the full force of our rolling bodies. I punched him a couple of times on the side of his head before I realized that he was finished. I got up in a crouch and checked his pulse. It was steady. I slapped his face a couple of times. His eyes opened. Before he could pull himself together, I rolled him over on his stomach, pulled my handcuffs out from the back of my belt, and locked his hands securely behind the small of his back.

I heard whistles and then running feet. The Shore Patrol surrounded me and then a couple of MPs. The MPs stood back, as if they wanted nothing to do with this.

I lifted Budusky by the collar and pushed his face back to the pavement.

“Why? Why’d you kill Lockworth?”

His face was contorted, grimacing in pain. His eyes were clenched. I lifted him and slammed him back again.

“It was your dad, wasn’t it? Your dad was a sailor. And he left you, you and your mother.”

It was an old story and didn’t take a great leap of imagination. An illegitimate kid from Norfolk, growing up to hate the navy, joining the army as an MP, finding his opportunity to take his revenge. A few bumps, a few bruises, a few dollars, and a sailor would get over it. It was the least they owed him for what his dad had done to him and his mother. Until he went too far. And killed.

I heard Budusky talking. It was choking out his throat.

“He left us. So what’s it to you?”

“And when you last heard from him …”

“Yeah.” The tears seemed to be squeezed out of his eyes. “When the last letter came, he was on the Kitty Hawk .”

Ernie and I left the next day with the date for Budusky’s court-martial set for next month.

Back in Seoul the first sergeant requested that the venue be changed about sixty miles north, to Camp Henry in Taegu. Ernie and I had to appear in court as witnesses, and it wouldn’t be smart to give the MPs in Pusan a chance to get at us.

I could understand their feelings. They saw us as traitors to the Military Police Corps. Maybe we were.

But none of those MPs ever sat down to write a letter to the parents of the late Petty Officer Third Class Gerald R. Lockworth.

I did.

It seemed that half our blotter reports lately had something to do with gambling.

Maybe it was the beautiful autumn in Korea, when the green leaves of summer turn to orange and yellow and brown and people realize that they are heading for that long cold winter we call death.

“Take a chance! You only go round once.”

Not what Buddha or Confucius would have said, but this is the modern Korea and the rules are changing. And the GIs stationed here have nothing better to do than throw away their money.

I thumbed through the blotter reports. A Korean businessman busted in a poker game on the compound; an NCO Club bartender rifling the night’s receipts to cover his “flower card” losses; a GI collared running a shell game in the barracks. And so when the first sergeant called me and Ernie into his office and gave us our assignment, it didn’t come as much of a surprise.

“Somebody stole the football pool on the Army and Navy game over at the Officers’ Club.”

We stared in mock horror. Ernie spoke first.

“Has Eighth Army been put on alert?”

“Yeah, wise guy. On alert. This may not seem too serious to you two, but the Eighth Army chief of staff is about to soil his shorts. ‘Besmirching the honor of the Army-Navy tradition,’ he said.”

Whenever they start talking tradition, honor, or country, look out for your brisket.

“How much money did he have invested?” I said.

The first sergeant sighed, took a sip of his lukewarm coffee, and ignored me.

“I’d put Burrows and Slabem on the case-they have more respect for the officer corps-but they’re on a case out at ASCOM City. So all I have left is you two.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Top.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The first sergeant set down his coffee and smiled at us. There was a warning in that smile. Something about not screwing up.

“The pool money was collected by the bartender, Miss Pei …”

“A female bartender? On a military installation? I thought the union didn’t allow that.”

“Normally they don’t, but this is the Officers’ Club and the union honchos want to keep the Eighth Army staff happy.”

“At the Enlisted Club, all we have to look at is the crusty old Mr. Huang.”

“You should have gone to Officers’ Candidate School.”

“Too late to become a brown-noser,” Ernie said.

The first sergeant shook his head. “All right, Bascom. And you too, Sueño. I don’t care what your personal feelings are about the Officers’ Club. This is a simple matter, and I want you to keep it that way. No nosing around for things that don’t concern you, and no mouthing off to those officers over there.”

Ernie pointed to his chest and mouthed a silent, “Us?”

“Yeah, you! Miss Pei is over there now, tending bar for the lunch crowd. At about thirteen hundred I want you to check it out and give me a complete report. Keep it simple, keep it neat, and don’t get yourselves into any trouble.”