Martin Limon: Ping-Pong Heart

“Two bucks,” Ernie said. “A high-class yobo . I think we should bust her.”

The drill was that we’d follow the cab to the ville, where she’d unload part of her haul in front of one of the many black market operations, and when she accepted her payment we’d swoop in for the arrest. We’d done it so many times it had become routine. Usually, we escorted the woman to the MP Station, wrote the report, and waited for her husband to show up and sign for her release. According to Army regulation, a soldier is responsible for the actions of his dependents, even to the point of court-martial if he doesn’t control their errant behavior.

“Might as well get it over with,” I said.

Ernie reached for the ignition, but stopped when we heard the roar of an engine approaching. A jeep rolled in front of us. The MP in the passenger seat hopped out and walked toward us, hoisting his web belt as he did so.

“You Bascom?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Ernie replied, “what’s it to ya?”

“Not a goddamn thing, except I have to relay a message.”

“So relay.”

“Colonel Brace wants to talk to you. ASAP!”

“Okay, Charlie,” Ernie said, tossing the MP a mock salute.

“The name’s Wilkins,” he said, but Ernie had already fired up the jeep and we were rolling away.

“Why do you have to aggravate people like that?” I asked.

“Like what?” Ernie said.

“You treated him like he was your servant.”

“I did?”

“Yes, which is maybe why Miss Kim won’t talk to you anymore.”

“What’s she got to do with this?”

“It’s your attitude, Ernie. She’s a catch. You ought to treat her better.”

Ernie seemed puzzled by this. “I treated her as good as I’ve ever treated any woman.”

That, of course, was the crux of the problem.

Colonel Brace kept us standing at attention. He shoved the translated statement across his desk.

“He says it’s a lie,” he told us.

“Of course he says that,” Ernie replied. “He’s not gonna admit that he can’t get it up.”

“He can’t get it up, sir ,” Colonel Brace replied.

“Yes, sir.”

Flustered, Colonel Brace continued. “It’s not about not getting it up. Major Schultz still claims that she took off with his money. He wants to make it official. He wants to file a complaint with the KNP Liaison Office.”

“He’ll be laughed out of Itaewon,” Ernie said.

“He’ll be laughed out of Itaewon, sir .” Colonel Brace was reaching the limit of his patience.

“Yes, sir!” Ernie replied again.

“I know,” the Colonel said, “it doesn’t make sense. This will destroy his reputation.”

Yongsan Compound had about 5,000 soldiers. Since it housed 8th Army headquarters, its personnel roster was top-heavy with brass, with almost half of those soldiers being officers. Gossip swirled fast, not only here, but throughout the military community. Even all the way back at Fort Hood, Texas, it seemed almost certain that if Major Schultz pressed this case, his wife would eventually catch wind of it.

We were all thinking the same thing. Major Schultz was having an emotional meltdown. He was destroying his military career, maybe his marriage. I’d seen it before: the vagaries of military life, the separation from home and family, the intense peer pressure not only to conform, but to paradoxically be in constant competition for promotion with the people you lived and worked with. Sometimes it was all too much for even experienced soldiers. Many of them turned to drink, a few to drugs, and occasionally some acted out by breaking the law.

“Can someone talk sense to him, sir?” I said. “Even if he’s telling the truth, all he’s out is fifty dollars.”

“I’ve tried. But he just left on his way to the Liaison Office. Do you have a contact over there?”

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Pong, the officer in charge.”

“Speak to him. See what can be worked out.”

“You want us to quash the report?” I asked.

“Maybe. Let’s talk it over with them. See if they have any ideas.”

We did. And the KNPs were more than happy to set Major Schultz’s report aside and take no action. A few days went by and we expected him to calm down and forget the whole thing. Unfortunately, he didn’t.

Three days later, Ernie and I were making our customary rounds of the Itaewon gin joints when Captain Kim, the commander of the Itaewon Police station, sent a runner. The young cop found us at the bar of the Seven Club and escorted us to the hooch near the old oak tree. Miss Jo had been beaten, and badly. Blood smeared the vinyl floor. The neighbors said they thought they had heard someone speaking English, probably American soldiers. Two attackers, that’s the one thing they all agreed on. But the night had been dark and no one had seen them clearly. And as soon as they could, they all shut their doors firmly, hiding from the unwanted presence of the Korean National Police.

Miss Jo had already been taken to the hospital. The deed had almost certainly been done by American GIs. It would be up to us, Agents George Sueno and Ernie Bascom, to find the perps and bring them to justice, or at least what passed for justice in these parts.

The next morning, Doctor Park was gruff with us. “She pay nothing. Who is going to pay for her?”

He was a middle-aged man with grey streaks running through his hair. His white coat was so fresh, I figured he’d put on a new one just to talk to us.

“She’ll be filing a Status of Forces charge,” I told him. “She should make enough to pay her hospital bills and more.”

“How long will that take?”

I shrugged. “Maybe a couple of months.”

He sighed. “And once she gets the money, she’ll run away.”

I handed him my card. “I’ll put you in touch with a SOFA Liaison Officer. Maybe he can arrange for her bill to be paid directly.”

He gazed at me skeptically but stuck the card in his shirt pocket. The three of us walked to her ward. Down the long cement corridors, Ernie kept swiveling his head, checking out the nurses.

Miss Jo was in a dimly lit room with about a half-dozen other patients, asleep, a tube down her nose and a hanging bottle feeding liquid into her arm.

“When will we be able to question her?” I asked.

“If you want, we’ll wake her now.”

I glanced at Ernie. He nodded. “No time like the present.”

The doctor called for a nurse and one scurried in. She must’ve been hovering just outside the door. He barked an order that I couldn’t understand, and in less than a minute she came back with a syringe and a bottle of fluid. Doctor Park administered the shot himself. Within seconds, Miss Jo Kyong-ja’s eyelids fluttered and then popped fully open.

The doctor checked her pulse once again and left us alone.

I patted her forearm. “Hello, Miss Jo.”

She nodded weakly.

“We’re here to help you. Tell us who did this to you.”

There seemed to be little understanding in her eyes. “Miss Jo, last night, who came to your hooch? Who hit you? Who beat you up?”

Her lips moved and it was as if she were trying to coax long-rusted machinery to crank over. Finally, she spoke. “You know who.”

“Was it Major Schultz?”

“Who?”

“Fred Schultz.”

“Freddy? Yes, Freddy.”

“A big blond guy,” I said. “Red face. Fat cheeks.”

She nodded. “Yes, him.”

“Did he say why he was doing this to you?”

“He wanted me to say not true.”

“Not true what?”

“What I told you.”

“About him not being able to do it?”

She nodded.

“Did he ask for his money back?”