Martin Limon: Mr. Kill

Lieutenant Shin made another announcement, asking everyone to continue to remain in their seats, apologizing for the delay, and telling them that they would soon be released. With the conductor at our side, we walked up and down the length of the train, making sure that every seat that was supposed to be occupied was in fact occupied. They were-all but one. It was in car number four, in the back row.

Next to the empty seat a G.I. slouched, bored with the delay. I’d already interviewed him, and he’d assured me that he’d seen nothing unusual, no Americans wandering forward from car four to car three. He was a private first class, wearing a wrinkled khaki uniform, holding a big leather pouch on his lap. The courier. The nameplate pinned to his shirt pocket said Runnels. I checked my notes again to make sure I had the spelling right. His eyes popped open and he looked up at us.

“You’re delaying my delivery,” he told me. “This pouch is supposed to be at 8th Army J-2 by fourteen hundred hours.”

“You still have time,” Ernie told him.

The guy checked his watch, snorted, and gazed out the window.

“Who was sitting next to you?” I asked.

The courier turned his head and gazed down into the seat next to him as if seeing it for the first time. “Here?” he asked.

“You see any other seats next to you?” Ernie asked. He was toying now with the brass knuckles hidden in his coat pocket, aching, I knew, to pop this guy a good one. We waited.

Private First Class Runnels shrugged. “Some guy,” he said finally.

“An American?”

“Yeah. Wearing civvies. He told me he was on in-country leave.”

“Did he say why?”

“No, he didn’t. I guess he just wanted to see Seoul.”

“Where was he stationed?”

“How should I know?”

“You didn’t ask?”

“What do you think I am? A bargirl?” In a singsong voice, Runnels said, “Where you stationed, G.I.?”

Lieutenant Shin’s face tightened. I positioned my body between the two men.

“So, what did you talk about?” I asked.

“Nothing. He wanted to be quiet, and so did I.”

Keeping my temper in check, I coaxed PFC Runnels into providing a detailed description of this man who had been sitting next to him. About six feet tall, dark brown hair cut short, blue jeans, sneakers, a thick pullover black sweater. Was he carrying a traveling bag? Runnels hadn’t noticed. He had noticed where he’d boarded the train: in Pusan, just as Runnels had.

Then Ernie placed his hands on the armrests on either side of Private First Class Runnels and leaned in close to him, so close that Runnels winced at Ernie’s breath.

“Okay, Runnels,” Ernie said. “Time for the little-boy act to stop.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Runnels was squirming now. Ernie’s green eyes shone from behind his round-lensed glasses, and his nose was pointed as if he were a woodpecker about to poke Runnels’s eyes out. These were the moments Ernie lived for. The moments when he turned the tables on criminals.

“Where is this guy?” Ernie sneered. “This invisible guy who boarded the train at the same time you did, who was supposedly going all the way to Seoul. Where is he now?”

“How in the hell should I know?”

Like a hawk swooping up toward the sky, Ernie’s right hand flashed across Runnels’s face. The sound of the slap filled the silent train. Everyone turned. Ernie leaned in even closer to Runnels.

“A woman has been raped, Private Runnels,” Ernie told him. “A decent woman who is the mother of two children. Two children who were sitting only a few feet from her when she was assaulted. I don’t give a shit about what your feelings are about MPs or law enforcement, but you’re not getting off this train, at least not in one piece, until you start telling me and my partner what we want to know. You got that?”

Runnels held his palm at the side of his face, his mouth open in shock. “You can’t do that,” he said.

“Can’t do what?”

“You can’t hit me.”

Ernie slapped him again.

Runnels squirmed back in his seat, leaning toward the window, trying to get as far away from Ernie as he could. Maybe it was the look on Ernie’s face. Maybe it was the disapproval that flowed in waves from the passengers all around. Whatever the reason, Runnels started talking. His words came in a rush. He told us everything he knew about the silent man who had taken the seat next to him.

“The guy was complaining about the army,” he said. “You know, the usual screw-the-army stuff. But then he said he was going to even the score.”

“How?” Ernie asked.

“He didn’t tell me. All he said was that there were a bunch of things, and people, who had to be taught a lesson. And when he rose from his seat, he glanced back at me and said something funny.”

“What was that?”

“He said he was going to start now.”

“Why was that funny?”

“Because he also said this would be the first check mark on a long list of what he called ‘corrective actions.’”

“‘Corrective actions?’ You mean like after an inspection?”

“That’s what the guy said.”

“What’s it mean?”

“How the hell should I know?”

This time, Ernie didn’t slap him.

Lieutenant Shin ordered everyone off the train. Grumpily, the passengers grabbed their bags and coats and made their way onto the platform. When the technicians had completed their work and everything was done that could be done, Lieutenant Shin talked to the conductor. In a few seconds, the big train was building up steam, and we hopped off and watched it roll slowly away. We made our way back to the huge domed entrance of Seoul Station.

Inside, much to our surprise, a crowd was waiting for us behind the long metal railing. People hooted, shouting epithets. Lieutenant Shin ordered his men to pull their batons. Forming a V with Ernie and me at the center, we started to carve our way through the crowd of angry faces.

That’s when we saw her, sitting in a wheelchair, surrounded by medical personnel and the same group of old women who’d been with her on the train. The victim. By now, Lieutenant Shin had told me that her name was Oh Myong-ja. As we approached, she stood shakily up from her chair. The old women patted her shoulders and tried to persuade her to sit back down. She took a tentative step toward us. The angry crowd grew quiet. We walked up to them. In Korean, Mrs. Oh Myong-ja started to speak.

“You should go home,” she said.

I just stood there, wondering what she meant.

“Back to your country,” she continued. “Back to America. We don’t need you here any more.”

The crowd was strangely silent. And then the woman’s daughter was standing next to her, and then the son; and the small triumvirate put their arms around one another protectively, and all three stared at me until tears started to flow from their eyes.

I wanted to say something, I’m not sure what, but I was sure it was important that I say something at that time. Very important. Instead, I said nothing.

Finally, I felt Ernie’s hand on my elbow. He told me later that as we made our way out of the station, people threw bits of wadded newspaper at us and even a couple of empty juice cans. The KNPs batted them away with their riot batons. In addition to cursing, a few people in the crowd started to chant, “Yankee go home!”

I remember none of this. What I do remember is Mrs. Oh Myong-ja, white gauze taped to her throat, knees shaking, hands clutching her children, black eyes burning with defiance. And I remember the smooth cheeks of her children’s faces and the tears that flowed down them. And the fear that showed in their eyes as they clutched one another.