Martin Limon - Joy Brigade

“And how do you know this?”

“Bandit Lee told me.”

“Who’s he?”

“The leader of the Manchurian Battalion.”

My debriefing continued like this for hours, Eighth Army wanting mainly to know where the tunnel was, but I refused to tell them. Not until I was promised two things. First, a commitment that they’d supply ammunition and medical supplies to the Manchurian Battalion. With helicopters, the supplies could be flown right across the DMZ and dropped near Mount O-song. This suggestion was received with resounding silence. Second, that Eighth Army would obtain a full pardon from the South Korean government for the charges that had been lodged against Doctor Yong In-ja before she’d fled north.

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.

“Sueno’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.

“Sueno’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 Sueno 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.