Martin Limon - Mr. Kill

Colonel Brace rubbed his eyes, as if he were extremely tired. “When will you two guys learn to keep your mouths shut?”

We didn’t answer.

“Do you know where the J-1 building is?” he asked.

I nodded my head. “Yes, sir. We know.”

SOFA stands for the Status of Forces Agreement, the treaty between the US and the Republic of Korea concerning the legal standing of American forces stationed on the Korean peninsula. Whenever there’s a dispute that needs to be resolved or a serious crime that comes to their attention, the SOFA Committee holds a meeting and the Korean and American representatives try to hash out a resolution. Apparently they’d been apprised of the Blue Train rape case, and now they’d also been apprised that 8th Army wasn’t going to investigate. Ernie and I, by spilling the beans to Lieutenant Pong, had stirred up some serious bureaucratic waste. Not that we hadn’t expected to.

Colonel Brace studied us. “When you appear before them,” he said, “you answer their questions truthfully. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But you only answer the questions they ask. You don’t volunteer information. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” we said again.

He stared at us for a long time, seemed about to speak, but finally shook his head and then waved his hand dismissively. “Get out of here. Both of you. Out!”

We saluted, performed a neat about-face, and marched out of his office.

Marnie was all over Ernie in the van, one arm draped around his shoulders, the other hand toying with the buttons of his shirt. Shelly, the lead guitar player, slapped Marnie’s hand away.

“Behave yourself,” she said.

Marnie pouted, frowned, and then turned back to Ernie, cooing, “You don’t mind, do you?”

Ernie ignored her. “What compound was that again, where you’re playing tonight?”

Shelly, sitting stiffly and continually glancing at Marnie, checked the itinerary. “Someplace called Camp Colbern,” she told us.

“That dump?” Ernie turned to me. “We should’ve brought the jeep, so we could get out of there early.”

“You want to leave me?” Marnie asked.

Ernie shoved her hand away. For the rest of the drive, she sat alone, pouting like a little girl.

After thirty minutes of winding roads, the van finally rolled through the main gate of Camp Colbern. The narrow road between Quonset huts was lined with G.I. s, smiling, waving, blowing kisses. The van’s engine churned as we climbed a short hill and came to a halt in the alley behind the Camp Colbern Enlisted Club.

Once we stopped, Mr. Shin and the other driver and their two assistants began unloading the equipment. We hustled the girls through the back door of the club. After a hallway lined with latrines, we entered a ballroom lit by dim yellow lights, with seating that would hold about a hundred people. The wall-to-wall carpet was tattered and spongy and reeked of mildew. Near the stage, beneath yellow floodlights, a reception committee waited. The post commander introduced himself, and he and his staff started fawning over the girls. Within minutes, Marnie had them rearranging the seating and running errands; soon she had appropriated the club manager’s office as the band’s official dressing room. MPs stationed at the front door kept the rank-and-file G.I. s at bay. The Korean staff-bartenders, cocktail waitresses, and cooks-stood back respectfully, awed by the celebrities from America who had dropped into their midst.

Everything seemed to be under control. The girls were in their dressing room getting ready. Ernie and I wandered out the back door and, after asking for directions, we found the PX snack bar. We both grabbed aluminum trays and slid along the metal railing in front of the steam table, selecting the only items on the menu: meatloaf, mashed potatoes with gravy, and yellowed green beans that had spent more time in the can than the Count of Monte Cristo.

As we ate, we sipped bitter coffee and listened to James Brown screech painfully out of a blinking jukebox.

“Did you tell her?” I asked.

“Tell her what?”

“That you’re not going to find Freddy Ray for her.”

“What’s the rush?”

That was Ernie. Get what he wants first and ruin it later.

“What about this SOFA meeting tomorrow?” he asked. “What do they want from us?”

“They want information,” I said, “to make Eighth Army admit that the Blue Train rapist is a G.I. At least that’s what the ROK side wants.”

“And if they get that?”

“They’ll want an investigation.”

Ernie shook his head. “Colonel Brace is gonna be pissed.”

I jabbed my fork into a small mountain of spuds. It can’t be helped, I almost said. Instead, I kept my mouth shut.

When we returned to the Camp Colbern Enlisted Club, the place was packed with G.I. s, standing room only, and the din of their howling was so loud that a pair of NCOs at the front door were handing out artillery ear plugs. I accepted a pair and twisted them into my ears. The Country Western All Stars were a massive hit, although I doubted anyone could hear their music. Marnie was shaking every quivering bit of flesh she had, and a squad of MPs lined the front of the stage, warning enamored G.I. s off with their nightsticks.

During one of their breaks, I walked out back behind the Enlisted Club to the area near the manager’s office that was being used as the band’s dressing room. An MP stood on duty in front of a high, painted-over window.

“Any problems?” I asked.

“None, other than I’m freezing my balls off.”

“If you see anybody, give us a holler.”

“Over that noise?”

“Do your best.”

I continued on around the building. Everything was secure. And it continued to be secure for the next few minutes while I stood outside enjoying the fresh air, until I heard a voice scream, “Halt!” It was the MP who’d been freezing his balls off. I ran back around the building in time to see him returning from a dark lane between Quonset huts.

“What happened?”

“I took a leak,” he said. “While I was back there, I heard footsteps. When I finished my business, some joker was hanging from the window ledge. He was pulling himself up so he could peek inside.”

The window was mostly painted over with green paint, but from the edges, yellow light seeped out.

“How long had he been hanging like that?” I asked.

“Less than a minute. I had to piss something fierce, and when I spotted him he dropped from the window and started to run.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“Naw. Too dark.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Fatigues. What else?”

“Then he was a G.I., not a Korean.”

“A Korean wouldn’t do something like that-try to catch a peek, I mean. That’s G.I. stuff.”

I didn’t disagree with him.

Finally, he said, “You going to report me?”

“What for? You were just taking a leak.”

“Yeah. But I hadn’t been properly relieved.”

I let the irony of the remark pass and told him not to worry.

Later that evening, on the drive back to Seoul, Marnie kept pestering Ernie to the point that the other girls were embarrassed, and right up until we finally arrived at the Crown Hotel. Without waiting to help with the unloading, the two lovebirds ran upstairs to their room.

The next morning, I sat on an upholstered chair in the lobby of the J-1 building wearing my dress green uniform and fiddling with the collar of my poplin shirt. My low quarters were highly polished, my chin shaved, and my black tie looped into a double Windsor. I looked sharp, I was on time, I was sober, and I didn’t care who knew it. I was also ready to testify, remembering Colonel Brace’s instructions: answer the questions honestly but don’t volunteer information.